Let Us Love Nobly
by Oliviaonthetrain
Summary: Set three years after the infamous Reichenbach, Sherlock finally decides it's time John knows he's alive. The problem is that John has almost moved on. The title is taken from a poem called 'The Anniversary' by John Donne. Rated M for later chapters.
1. The Sun Rises and Sets

Chapter 1

**{The Sun Rises And Sets} In which a reunion of sorts takes place**

_It's been three years or maybe more,_

_Feels like a day,_

_Still you make my heart ache.__  
><em>_My words are frozen_

_All this hurt runs down to my feet._

_Walking away is the hardest thing to do_

_But I must leave.__  
><em>

_{Will Young – Silent Valentine}_

* * *

><p>Sleep lulls him – strains of sunlight through curtains. Dimmed room, smell of Mary next to him. Inhale. He despises the sun sometimes. It rises and sets as it always has these three years. June, hot, drowsy, torturous. It's the anniversary of Sherlock's fall –<p>

It's today, but Mary's hand (long, pale, freckled) squeezes his, interrupts his thoughts.

'Go back to sleep,' she croons, half-asleep, eyes closed.

She knows him too well, feels that he is thinking – but of what – he has never specifically told her. Still, she is comforting, and he credits her for his recovery since Sherlock's – no - too soon to say the word – still raw and fresh in his mind. But at least he is moving on. Mary Morstan, dark blonde, medium height, delicate, light – she is not who he's imagined next to him in bed, waking up to this almost-fairy-creature in the rush of morning light.

She is the very opposite of Sherlock in appearance: he's dark, she's light, he's tall, imposing; she's dainty, small in comparison. They are, John thinks, two Graces full of elegance come to lure him into a repetitive trap. He responds to Mary's squeeze, tucks her head under his chin, fingers her hair. He cannot lose more people…

Yet he thinks, were Sherlock alive, he might almost approve of her – no one can match his intelligence (Irene and Moriarty found themselves circling the same sphere), but Mary _is_ bright. Unlike Sherlock, she has the patience to pass on knowledge…

For such a sprite-like frame, she is anything but temperate.

When John first meets Mary, it's on reluctant case lead by Lestrade. John's therapist – who Mrs Hudson pushed him to see – recommended following a case or two to cure his limp (which had come back in full vengeance three months after Sherlock's fall).

It started with a text message from Lestrade to meet him at the police station. He remembers sitting there, impatiently – a void between him and a chair and Lestrade. What is the point, he thinks, without Sherlock? He taps his fingers on the table in front of him, his coffee an impolite stale brew – and Lestrade is kind enough not to say anything because he knows it's not impatience John is suffering from, it's grief – the kind that has kept the DI up for months (or is that guilt? God – no, he never believed Donavan and Anderson – was reluctant to even arrest Sherlock – to chase after him.)

'Mary Morstan,' Lestrade says, handing John a A4 file with information inside. '26, born in India to British parents, school teacher. Her mother died as a result of giving birth to her, and her father's a captain in the navy in India. He's - '

'Missing.'

Lestrade and John look up, follow the light, punctuated English accent in the room. Mary, bright-faced, searching eyes, dressed in a man's attire. John just about sees her small face under the shadow of the straw trilby hat, trails the dark shabby suit across her frame, the over-sized tweed jacket.

'What the-?'

Lestrade is cut off before he can interject with expletives.

'It's the only way I could assure people wouldn't follow me here – who ever has taken my father is mostly likely tracking me,' Mary says in a very matter-of-fact tone. 'I've got a slight boyish build – I thought I'd get away without anyone noticing me.'

She says this all to Lestrade. She flickers her attention to John – but only for a second.

'Lestrade, who's this?'

'John Watson…' he extends his hand, she takes it curtly, unsure. 'I thought I'd help, if I can.'

She narrows her eyes at him. The look between them does not have romantic intent; there is no sign of attraction between them yet. Just an acute sympathy from Mary, a hint of admiration from John.

'John Watson – yes, Sherlock Holmes's friend. I'm sorry for what happened. In fact, I was going to consult him.'

And that's it – such a short, insignificant meeting – and here they are, lying next to each other. Her disguises never parallel Sherlock's, but at least she isn't a puzzle, a knot to untie. She is Mary, he is John. And the simpler things are, the better he feels.

'Are you sure you're ready to go back to him?'

Sherlock purses his lips. Mycroft's question is not answered. Mostly because Sherlock finds Mycroft a simpleton – of course the answer is yes, otherwise he would not be here. Deduction is not his brother's forte.

'Things have changed for him, Sherlock.'

He places his palms together, prayer-like, eyes closed. 'Whatever has changed, don't tell me. It's irrelevant. I must reveal myself to him either way. It's time.'

He hears an exasperated sigh from Mycroft. His mouth quivers into a sharp smile: oh, how he's missed exasperating his big brother. On a list of things that give him immediate pleasure and calm, nicotine patches, solving crime, and John, 'Mycroft exasperated' is surely somewhere near the top.

'I've realised since we were children that I cannot change your mind…'

'Obviously.'

'221B is vacant.'

Sherlock opens his eyes sharply. He hears Mycroft go on, but his brain has no time to analyse his words.

'Ah,' Mycroft says, 'this was the one piece of information you missed.'

'It's evident that he moved out recently – I had only, two weeks ago, checked our flat.' Mycroft looks at him intently, the word 'our' is sour in the air. Sherlock knows he's said the word, that it's too late to take it back.

Mycroft is clearly not finished discussing this with his brother, but Sherlock is restless – with a swish of his coat, he glides out of the room, leaving his brother in his shadow.

There's only one reason John could have moved out – a woman. It's been three years since the fall, and John could have left 221B years ago if he felt inclined too. No. A relationship with someone – it's serious. He must be in _her_ home. Mycroft, he knows, would have told him the address – but he has already worked it out, knows that John would not have gone far from Baker Street and Mrs Hudson, who is like a surrogate, sometimes over-bearing, nevertheless affectionate, mother.

Two weeks ago, when he – when he gets the chance and is in London – surveys 221B and checks in on John – a couple of streets down – Crawford Street, that is – he witnesses a clutter of vans, workmen moving furniture into someone's new home. Though is no sight of John – or the woman he now lives with, nor did he see her (thank God) at 221B.

John's leaves Mary's house (or is it _their_ house now?) to get 'the milk and eggs'. A slither of guilt punctures his chest. He knows, as well as Mary probably knows, that he is not. The fridge is full of milk and eggs, and a couple of roads away lies 221B Baker Street, the place he wiles himself away from as long as he can to try and forget. But forgetting is not an option…

It's the same, 221B. John imagines the many phantoms of Sherlock, as he watches what was once their home from across the street, shooting at the wall, searching for his 'stash', soothing his mind with gentle notes on his violin.

What's that he can feel at the corner of his mouth? A smile? So rare, he touches to make sure it's still there. His smiles are odd and strained in public – not the same when Sherlock was around – and even Mary occasionally sees a genuine smile of happiness on his face, or pats his back, when he can't smile, as if to say, 'It's OK. Tomorrow might be better.'

Something catches his eye – it couldn't be – someone in 221B Baker Street? It wasn't Mrs Hudson – not by the quick, soaring silhouette he sees. He hopes to God he's not going mad – the fear of it enters his mind on a number of occasions, when he thinks he sees Sherlock in the streets, in the supermarket, in the throngs of the city, in the private nightmare of his dreams. This will be one of those days when his mind has no relief. Sherlock's dead, and yet his head is full of him.

Soldier stance, he straightens his back against fear, marches up to the door of 221B. Mrs Hudson is out – the absence of her making the bed, putting the kettle on, watching her soaps on the telly, is eerily gone. It is silent.

He runs up the stairs (fear is betraying him now), war and adrenaline in his chest – opens the door to the flat.

A figure, he can see, tall, dark, violin arched in his hand – the dreaded deerstalker hat is on the mantle of the fireplace. John can see the figure's face in the mirror.

'Hello, John.'

There's not time to react, before John's knees buckle, before his body goes numb, cold.

He is the soldier undone, not by a Sarah, a Mary, but a Sherlock – he can almost hear his fellow comrades from the war laughing – or worse – pitying him.

The rest is darkness. And when John wakes, Sherlock's face is lit against the gash of light from the sun setting behind them on Baker Street, a familiar aching in his chest is rising again.


	2. Before the Service Began

Chapter 2

{**Before The Service Began/Pushing Up Daisies**} In which John and Sherlock confront each other. The line 'write me well', which you'll come across later in this chapter, was taken from the film 'Shakespeare in Love'. I thought it was quite a relevant piece of dialogue.

'_And the grass was so green against my new clothes_

_And I did cartwheels in your honour,_

_Dancing on tiptoes, my own secret ceremonials,_

_Before the service began'_

(Only If For The Night – Florence and The Machine)

* * *

><p>Sherlock's ears pierce with pain – it has only been a minute since Mrs Hudson heard the thud of John fainting, came in to see what the fuss was about, and saw a very-alive-looking Sherlock perched low, trying to recover his friend.<p>

She is calm, eventually, stronger than Sherlock has previously given her credit for. A motherly presence that he thinks he doesn't need, but secretly – occasionally – treasures, and the slobbering mess of tears she leaves on his shoulder, the almost strangling position of her arms around his neck, the maternal instinct to ruffle his hair – he loves her for it. She is his 221b surrogate mother, and when they grip each other, it's like the same blood flows through them – he holds her protectively, thinks back to the time when he almost killed a man who dared to harm her.

And it's her who rescues him from what would have been a fatal blow from John. He has seen the reaction – the recognition in John's face that his friend is not dead but in fact alive, real, solid in his hands. The fright came first, the folds and creases around his mouth, the watery eyes, the sigh of breath. _Relief_. Sherlock knows then what will come – he's seen the necessary studies of bereavement and grief (tedious emotional things, but something he has had to read and savour for professional purposes).

The Dopamine chemical coursing through John's bloodstream is most certainly not be enough to deter his clenched fist from swinging itself towards Sherlock's face. A lack of Serotonin, a lack of well-being –

There's Mrs Hudson, a gentle hand to John's face – and that's enough to hold him back from hurting Sherlock.

Sherlock watches him as he paces around the room, passes the mirror, the skull, the laptop, looking for something to hit, to damage, to make something feel the same pain, the aching in his chest and the stinging in his brain.

'How the – how can you – bloody hell, Sherlock – I can't-'

Sherlock feels like breaking the ice, adding humour (otherwise useless, but perhaps needed to avoid provoking more anger in John), but he decides against it. John would most likely punch him without reservations.

John walks towards him. He looks at him, apologetic lines written over his face – for anyone else this would be humiliating, degrading – but for John, Sherlock needs to show how sorry he is. Whatever John is going to do to him, he probably deserves it.

Mrs Hudson makes a mousy squeal, but a wave of John's hand signals to her that he will not hurt Sherlock. Sherlock holds his breath. Odd. To everyone else, the expression on his face is probably stoic, put together. He needs it to be that way – if he breaks down in front of John, he will not recover.

But something John is doing makes Mrs Hudson stop – John and Sherlock are so bound within each other's space. They do not hear her leave quietly.

Sherlock's head hurts. Not good. He cannot think. John is too close. He feels John's warm hands against his cheeks, cold in comparison to this lively person. John: always temperate, warm, kind. Perhaps, Sherlock thinks, he _is_ really dead.

John looks confused – wants to hurt him for what he's done – but there is something else – a flicker in his eyes, a look of apprehension – Sherlock is _his_, he is, alarmingly, wanting to claim him back, stop him from leaving – needs all of him, every single part of his mind and –

There it is – so small, barely significant: John gazes a bit too long at Sherlock's lips. Sherlock wants to dismiss it as nothing, and so does John. But it's too late. It's be catalogued in Sherlock's brain – as is everything to do with John.

John embraces him in a lengthy hug, and Sherlock feels his chest rise and settle heavily.

'I should have just punched you when I got the chance,' John says, his voice muffled, and Sherlock smiles.

'Perhaps.'

Sherlock is disappointed when the embrace ends – that too will be catalogued – how many minutes, hours, days, till he can experience and index John's embrace again?

Sherlock stares at the floor, in deep thought. He looks up at John, who's waiting for an explanation.

'Why the hell did you do it, Sherlock?'

'I deduced what I had to do quite a while before it happened, John,' he says, evidently avoiding the emotional question first, 'I knew the pain I was going to put you through. Those tears, on the top of the roof of Bart's, I ought to let you know – and I'll deny it if you tell anyone outside of this flat, were real. I don't remember the last time I cried – it feels like that was the first time I ever did cry.'

John is squeezing his eyes shut, hoping the insides of his lids would blackout the vivid brightness of the day of the Fall, but it can't.

'_I owe you a fall_, he told me,' Sherlock continues. 'I told Moriarty (John winces at the name) that I disdain riddles, but _that_ one was simple enough. And if I was going to complete his story, to die in disgrace – the one thing that makes me who I am – my intellect – proven 'false' – I had to do it my way.'

'You knew he'd target me.'

'Of course. You were my first thought. Distractingly.' Avoid eye contact, Sherlock tells himself, dismiss it, for heaven's sake, _delete _these emotions. 'He threatened the lives of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Three bullets for three of you. What would be the point of living, if my only important connection with the world was swiftly taken away from me?'

'I thought you said sentiment was on the losing side…'

You have to look at him, Sherlock thinks, tell him it's not true when it comes to _him_. 'I still believe what I said to be…significant. But there are exemptions – you are not mere sentiment, John. I wonder if you know you are much more than that. You, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade deserved to live – that could only have been possible if I had died.'

'I saw your body, Sherlock, saw you – bleeding, dead – how?'

'You _thought _you saw me fall. I didn't. I told you specifically to stay where you were. The biker who disorientated you – a part of my homeless network, naturally. Unable to use your five senses logically, you staggered towards an apparently lifeless me. The blood was real, just not mine, not human. The post-mortem was arranged by Molly. Her help has been invaluable to me.'

'Molly knows?' John says, blinking, his voice low.

Sherlock hears the tension in his voice. Impossible for people think sanely when confronted with someone they think was once dead. 'Don't be angry, John'. He is surprised by the softness of his own voice. 'She has had to carry this burden for three years – she is the epitome of loyalty. She made sure to keep a good eye on you while I was gone.'

John's mouth is coarse and dry, he's shaking; he sits to steady himself. 'Lestrade?' is all he manages to say, but he is confident Sherlock has already deduced what he will ask.

'He's received a text message from me this morning. For now, if he has any cases for me, I shall assist if he wishes, but in secret. Though it may be time for me to reveal myself to you, I don't quite think everyone else is ready…'

John frowns at him. Sherlock thinks, _Not now, please don't ask. Later, I will explain. _

As if he understands, John nods, and says quietly, 'I never believed anyone else. Always you.'

'I know.'

It's brief, but the silence between them isn't one of awkwardness, but understanding and familiarity.

'Sherlock – I assume you're-'

'Staying here from now on, yes.'

'I can't go home tonight – I'm – I can't just yet – I know it sounds stupid, but I'm afraid you'll-'

'Of course you can stay here tonight. I'm not going anywhere, I know that's what you fear – that I'm going to leave you again.'

His smile is genuine, reassuring – John brightens, Sherlock doesn't smile much, and he feels these smiles are just for him.

'I suppose I should text Mary, tell her what's happened,' John says, taking out his mobile.

'Mary…' The words come out sharply – two syllables, disjointed from Sherlock's usual eloquent voice.

'Yes – I – she's my long-term girlfriend.'

'Oh.'

Perhaps John should have punched him, Sherlock thinks. Sherlock appears not to be able to speak in more than monosyllabic phrases, and he hates that he sounds so inadequate, childish, _vulnerable. _He hates the fact that his 'Oh' hangs in the air, distancing him from John.

'Of course,' Sherlock says finally, and this time lies down awkwardly on the couch, facing the wall.

John is not sure if he's sulking or going to sleep, but either way he's chosen to stay here, to rest in the communal space of their living room, and John rests his head back on the chair, his eyes settled on the ceiling. Mrs Hudson, tears staining her face, brings up a tray of tea and biscuits. She shares a reciprocal smile with Sherlock – he owes her one – after all these years. Before John knows it, he's asleep.

_It's warm. That much he knows; that much he allows his body to feel. The rest of him is numb, even though his skin is sensitive to the light, prickly summer heat. May. Flowers budding up, pushing up lilies, daffodils, daisies. He watched Sherlock being pulled down into the ground, his coffin stable underneath his feet. Now he wonders if Sherlock will flower, push through ground, break out. John thinks he must be terribly uncomfortable, squashed, those excellent, expendable limbs of his, like his mind, too big for this world._

_He can't remember how, but he's left his black jacket on the grass somewhere, been awfully relaxed about how he's dressed, just the blinding white of his shirt against the hot sun and green grass. _

_He lies down, the shoots of grass tickling bits of bare skin, his wrists, his hands, his ears. He's lying as close he can to Sherlock, body to body – near enough – one man's blood, heart, brain, beating, the other's not. There are other bodies in the ground, their gravestones relics of what was once their lives, cold, monumental._

_It's time to cry now, he thinks. Yes, that's what's missing from this scene. Tears. He tries, but when his face looks up towards the whitened sky and blazing sun, they dry his eyes before they can water._

_A cool breeze glides past him. From the corner of his eye, he can feel a figure lying next to him, familiar breath against his ear, dark curls, that undeniable presence come to haunt him with pleasure._

'_I'm sorry I'm dead. But it won't be long. You know I'll come back to you.'_

_He basks in Sherlock's voice, lets it enter his bloodstream. _

'_I know you will,' John smiles, still looking at the sky. 'You always do'_

'_People are so bothersome, but I find you an exception. How you view me – well, that's different.'_

'_Really?'_

_Sherlock sighs. 'Obviously.' John turns for the first time to face him. The sunlight hits Sherlock's face at an angle that makes him look terrifyingly otherworldly. But he has never been for this world, John thinks. 'You'll find her. You'll move on. I can't give you want you want, what she can give you.'_

'_I don't understand.'_

'_Mary. It's a nice enough of name. You'll have nice enough kids. Live in a nice enough house. She won't die and leave you like I did.'_

_Sherlock is becoming increasingly agitated. There's a look of desperation on his face when he stares at John that's never been seen before._

'_You'll forget me.'_

_John shakes his head, soldierly. 'No – never. I couldn't. I never will.'_

_Sherlock looks at John, a sort of smile brightens his face, but it is a sad one, the kind you see – and John has seen this many a time on the face of a man, a woman, who had not long to live on the battlefield – when someone knows they're about to leave forever._

'_Write me well, John, in your blog . Write me, remember me, believe in me.'_

'John - _John_ - it's okay, I'm still here.'

'Sherlock – oh, I'm sorry. Must have been dreaming. Didn't realise you were up…'

John wipes the sweat from his face, feels the soaring heat of his cheeks – God knows how long he's been shouting out Sherlock's name… It's too dark too see Sherlock, but he senses his presence near him. He's glad for darkness, anything to hide the shame on his face. He feels so…dependent.

And Sherlock – of course he's awake, hasn't been able to give his mind a break ever since the almost-kiss between himself and John (why can't he sleep? He doesn't care for liaisons, emotional or romantic. He cares for John – enough to fake his own death, to leave John out of harm's way – he knows he and John have a strong bond, felt it when he first deduced him in the lab at Bart's. So what is it that he _feels_? Obviously some bothersome emotion he deleted ages ago, and didn't bother to remember. But his head aches of John – the room smells of John, feels his rational brain with irrational thoughts of John, and he's worried. This is knowledge that escapes his grasp, and he hates it – make him feel uncomfortable, a failure, inadequate…).

'It's common, 75% of the time, for the bereaved subject to dream of the person in their life who has died.' Sherlock blurts out this fact before he realises how cold it sounds. It's true, it's solid, it's evidence. And that is all he can do – give John what's real. John deserves this much, he thinks – be direct with him. He has to compensate, counteract; say something with _feeling_. Say something _honest_.

'I purposely arranged to hire paramedics to take me away as soon as possible, before you could look any closer at my supposedly dead body.'

'Sherlock-'

'John, let me finish… I made sure they were swift. I could still hear you shouting my name. It hurt. To have to play Moriarty's game, to pretend that I was dead. The squash-ball I was playing with earlier inside Bart's – an old trick to 'stop' one's pulse. I felt you take my pulse, I remember – if it had not been for that, I most certainly would have given it all away. I was not, at the time, in control of my logical facilities. I could only hear your voice, and it pushed out all the information I gathered from my life's work. You filled these spaces in my head.'

'Glad I wasn't the only one, then.'


	3. His John, Mary's John

Quick note to readers: Thank you for all the kind messages, reviews, and encouragement – I hope I can do this fanfic justice. Everyone's work is so amazing, and I hope I can contribute to the fandom well! Lots of love and admiration to you guys,

Olivia

P.S - Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Chapter 3<p>

{**His John, Mary's John**}

In which Sherlock and John trace the streets of their London, discussing the lives they've lived for the past three years. Also, Sherlock finally meets Mary.

'_I'm a slow dying flower, the frost-killing hour,_

_The sweet turning sour, and untouchable._

_O, I need the darkness_  
><em>The sweetness, the sadness,<em>  
><em>The weakness, I need this.<em>

_I need a lullaby, a kiss goodnight,_  
><em>Angel sweet love of my life,<em>  
><em>O, I need this.'<em>

_(My Skin – Natalie Merchant)_

* * *

><p>'So you mean to tell me that Irene is actually alive?' John says, his throat thickening. Sherlock kept<em> this<em> from him.

Sherlock is silent, back straight, coat billowing, Big Ben sweeping over his head. There's a chill this morning in June, and John's reaction is certainly worse than when he realised Mycroft knew he was alive all those years.

'I didn't think it was relevant.'

'You didn't – Sherlock-!'

'It's seems even more irrelevant now, after everything that has happened.' A simple line, a simple look from Sherlock, and John's throat closes up again – he averts his eyes away from Sherlock and towards Big Ben. At least this way, he can hide from Sherlock's gaze.

Yet John finds something unusual rise in his voice (though he's not sure what it is). 'Did she _help_ you – when you were in hiding?'

Sherlock furrows his brow. 'You've answered your own question. Yes, she did. When the time called for it, I lodged with her occasionally when I needed a place to stay. She seemed fond of the notion that we were _dead _together.'

John breathes heavily, hoping he goes unnoticed. Sherlock scans his face swiftly: something human, something he recognises but is not so familiar with. Jealousy? Why would John be jealous? (Is this motivated by something deeper, something more universal? Record his facial expression, observe, research.)

'I've been travelling, John,' he says, 'these past three years. First it was Florence, and that was fine enough until I felt I had to change address again. The next two years I wandered through Lhasa, Tibet.'

'And were you enlightened there?'

Sherlock pauses, unsure. He looks briefly at John with a puzzled face, a sort of vulnerability that visits his face now.

'I don't see what you mean. The Dalai Lama isn't missing much.' (Was that too cold, he thinks? John will ignore it anyway.) 'I had a spell in Norway as an explorer incognito (it was easy, really). I found myself in pursuit, and pursing others, from Iran to Khartoum… The only time I had left to conduct research was in a chemical lab in France. Nevertheless, I found that disguise is much more than putting on funny hats and clothes…'

They walk towards Bankside, down the edges of Southwark with its wide-mouthed cathedrals and crooked graveyards. John turns his face the other way, looking only at Sherlock, in case he is, after all, a mere phantom, and he really is mad after all, and his best friend is dead and lying under the ground he treads.

'It's all about the act,' Sherlock continues, 'putting on a character in the way you walk and talk. I'm not sure whether I should be ashamed or appalled, but I think I caught on from Moriarty's Rich Brook.'

A tense smile creases the edge of Sherlock's face, and he looks down at John who is silent. 'Yesterday night… John, I should have told you something. But I didn't want to. Not when we had finally reconciled.'

'I know I'm not always on the same wave-length as you – in fact, none of London is – but I'm not stupid. You've hunted Moriarty's web, but there's one more thread uncut.'

'Sebastian Moran.'

'Moran…why does that name sound familiar?'

'He served in Afghanistan like yourself. No doubt your comrades talked about him in whispers.'

'My God - Colonel Sebastian Moran, _of course_. But with his father knighted, his education at Eton and Oxford, he wasn't the sort to hang around with us. He was the highest of his rank. I'd like to say it was snobbery, but his skill was unparallel to anyone I'd ever seen… What's he want with you, Sherlock?'

'My life, apparently.'

'_Bloody hell_.'

It's a quiet expletive, but Sherlock is good at recognising when John is tense or worried (he only records this for John, and he is able to justify it). He places one slender hand on John's back and says, 'It's fine' very quietly. 'I'm safe. _We're_ safe.' John nods stoically. Every bone in his body must react in a soldierly way. The day is for walking soberly and the night is for weeping.

'He's an ally of Moriarty's – or, rather, he was until his boss shot himself in the mouth.'

'And he wants revenge?'

'He was a well-kept man under Moriarty. Now he has to squabble for his money by gambling and playing cards in London. I don't suppose Daddy-British-diplomat-to-Iran is very pleased.'

'Sir Augustus Moran? Can't be pleased, can he, with a name like that.'

Before they realise it, they're giggling. John feels a kind of warmth inside him, and his face aches from grinning.

'He wasn't always for the criminal – Sebastian Moran,' Sherlock says, 'but with a twisted father like Augustus, it is most certainly hereditary. He must have done something to get himself expelled from the army.'

'It was all very hush-hush, as far as I can remember.'

'Money pays for silence. Always.'

It takes a walk over Millennium Bridge, two cups of tea and one and half scones, before Sherlock speaks again.

'I've been talking about the life I've led for three years. Social protocol dictates it's your turn now,' a wry smile spreading across his face, but only because John is smiling back at him.

'Well … I can't say I've led such a thrilling existence since I thought you were – you know… But I met Mary.'

'Mary.' He sounds out the name, this woman who is now John's. 'Yes. Miss Morstan.'

'How did you – I'm not even going to ask.'

'I may have done a spot-check on her last night.' John gives him a look of disbelief. 'Google tells you everything these days. It's almost as good as my brain.' He looks straight at John. 'I wanted to see if she was good enough for you.'

A different look sweeps John's face. Sherlock keeps his eyes on St Paul's ahead of him. 'And?' he hears John say.

'I can't make any conclusions.'

John gives a brief chuckle. He's not angry…yet, Sherlock thinks. He's always been able to keep under a cool exterior, until John came along. He remembers being by the swimming pool, the way his stomach and heart seemed to defy the logic of biology when he saw John strapped with explosives. He recollects the moment he saw John's face from the roof of Bart's. _Keep your eyes fixed on me._ Yes, that was for the purposes of illusion. John needed to be fooled so he could be safe. But he wanted John to fix himself inside his head: he was willing to be haunted by John's image, because he wasn't sure how long it would be until he could see him again.

'Why don't you meet her?

'What?'

'Mary – why don't you meet her? She's off work today.'

He wants to say he's not interested in social niceties (he also wants to avoid Mary), but this is John, and he doesn't want to upset him (horrid, inferior human emotions).

'Fine.'

* * *

><p>'Mary, it's me!' John shouts. Sherlock can smell her, so resolutely different to John (who smells of tea, jam, domestics). Her scent comes from the stairs (she's in her bedroom then), flowery but not sickly, and … ink: she's been marking her pupils' papers.<p>

She walks lightly on the landing, her toes pointing as she walks down the stairs. The light hits her gently, angelic when she reaches the bottom of the staircase.

She kisses John with quick gusto, and brightens when she sees Sherlock.

'Well,' she beams, 'I know who _you_ are.'

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. 'How much has John been telling you?'

She laughs heartily, but all of her – the movements in between, the gentle swish of a blonde curl, the steady balance of a small hand – is composed. She's warm and slightly rebellious, but aloof and dignified in her body language. Paradox. Sherlock is half-cursing himself for not completing disliking her.

'And what about me?' she says, teasingly.

'He knows he doesn't have to say much to me about you.'

'Oh, yes,' she says, her voice lost through the living room – the gentle turn of her hand beckons them to follow her. 'You can deduce me.'

Sherlock makes an incomprehensible noise, taking details of the house into his brain. It's minimal, monotone – white and cream walls, few mirrors here and there, a house that will be filled with voices and laughter between Mary and John, but not himself. He frowns…

'You alright, Sherlock?' John asks.

'Tea. I need tea,' he says, more to himself than to anyone else. He glances sideways at John. '_Please_.'

'Go on, John,' Mary smiles, sitting on the sofa opposite Sherlock and John. 'Be a good boy, get him some tea.'

'He should be making _me_ tea – for three years.'

'Sounds legitimate,' Mary says, and John gets up to go to the kitchen.

They can hear the kettle boiling. Mary smiles at Sherlock, who is staring at her. 'I should feel terrified being so exposed. But I'm fascinated. I finally get to meet you. You've had such an impact on John.'

'Good, I hope.'

'Nothing but.'

'And I assume you want me to deduce you?'

'Why not. Go for it.'

'You like to travel, it's in your blood. You're parents travelled vastly – there's various relics and souvenirs, vintage, I gather, around your house. They stand out, they're the only ornaments of décor in here.'

'Impressive.'

'Your father – he's alive – been found, I heard of the case when I was away – he's now a retired captain, once served in India.'

'Very good…'

'India, where you were born. You try to go back there as often as you can, but it's not to connect to your father, who – despite your love for him – you have a complicated relationship with. There are no pictures of him, as far as I can see, but a couple of your other relatives who aren't even as closely related.'

'Yes, for someone who's travelled the world, let's just say my father's very Victorian.'

'It's your mother who you try to connect to, an archaeologist… That explains the locket you wear around your neck. You don't take it off, even when you sleep – there's a oval mark or dent from where the pendant's pressed too hard against your chest. I'm gathering the locket was hers – it has to be sentimental. Your ears are earring-less, you've no rings about your fingers, you've no time for jewellery with the type of job you do. You never had a chance to meet your mother...'

'I was born, she died.'

'You're a primary school teacher – there's ink and red pen on your wrists. You don't bother to hide the marks, you're proud of your job. But you want more.'

Mary smiles. 'How they could ever have said you were fake is beyond me.'

'And did you believe it?'

Mary looks at him intently. 'I know I'm in between you and John, that you didn't expect to come back and find John permanently with someone else, Sherlock. I sense I'm probably not on your list of things you like, but you know as well as I do that I shan't go out of my way for you to like me. But you ought to give me more credit, I've a brain!' she smiles. 'Anyway – I knew you'd able to deduce me. That was the _easy_ part.'

She's not smiling anymore. Not in a malicious way (he wishes it was, and then he could hate her and tell John), but in a way that suggested their discussion is serious. The TV sports silent images in the background, BBC presenters blurred from sight.

'What may I deduce from _you_?' Mary says.

_Where is John and his tea, for heaven's sake_, Sherlock thinks.

'Your question cannot support an answer.'

'I'm curious, to say the least. You say you don't like sentiment, John has always told me this when he talks to me about the cases you both solved. Yet I look at John and I see sentiment, I see emotion, I see humanity. Even he said he thought, after you had both met each other for the first time, you would tire of him. You do not appear to care for sentiment,' she pauses, thinking, 'and yet you care for John.'

'You seem to have an interest in my relationship towards John.'

'I can't help but be interested.'

There is something in her gaze. (A knowing look? Oh, he despises those) He doesn't bother to work it out. John comes in with the tea.

'Turn up the news,' Sherlock says to him, looking at the TV screen. 'Just as I thought.'

_Breaking News. A man aged 37 has been found dead in the room of a private members' club in Park Lane, London. Reports confirm that the victim suffered a bullet wound through the head and has been named as Ron Adair. Witnesses did not hear a gunshot and the police are perplexed as to how and why such a murder would happen. _

'They're always perplexed,' Sherlock breathed, rising from the sofa with his long limbs outstretched.

'Sherlock, where are you going-?'

John's sentence is cut with a look from Sherlock. 'Do you need me to come?' John says. Sherlock wonders if he's hearing things, or if he notes a pleading tone in his voice.

'No. This one I should do alone.' He nods at Mary. 'Pleasure.' The door slams, and he's gone.

John blinks. Sherlock has walked in and out of Mary's (their?) home as if a child who has become bored playing with a dollhouse. Suddenly the teacups look silly and out of place, and he longs for something he does not understand.

* * *

><p>Molly has been anxious all day since receiving a text message from Sherlock.<p>

_Guess who's back. Has London missed me? Never mind. Irrelevant. Crime rate's up by 5% - SH._

She's pleased – particularly for John. She hasn't been able to bare being the one to lie to such a honest, open man, but Sherlock came to her that night at Bart's, trusted her, confided in her; and while he had once had a tendency to treat her like crap, the very fact that he told her _she counted_, _she always counted_, peeled away all the layers of Sherlock she thought she knew.

But she dreads it – the moment, as she knows it will happen – when he'll come through those white doors, asking her to run an errand or do him a favour. And she'll say 'Of course. Anything'. Mostly because she admires him, because she's not quite over him, because she pities him. She knows why he will swoop through the lab, the world furrowed on his brow: Mary. John's Mary.

He'll want a case any second now, he's hungry for it.

'Molly.'

She hears the door swing behind him. Precisely on time. 'How did John react?'

'As I expected.'

'And I assume you've met his girlfriend by-'

'There's a man dead at a gentleman's club down Park Lane. Use the knowledge you've attained about me, Molly. What would I rather discuss?'

She half-smiles at him. She's not fumbling this time. 'Corpse?'

'I thought you'd never ask.'

In the next ten minutes, she's placed a donated body out on the slab for examination, one that Sherlock can run tests and experiment on. Sherlock has asked for all sorts of chemicals, and they've petrified the air with a rank odour that makes even the corpse look as if it smells of flowers.

She overhears Sherlock mumbling to himself, bent over, examining the corpse. 'Soft-nosed revolver bullet. _Obviously_. No one within a ten-minute radius heard the shot. Ron Adair's door locked from the inside…will have to investigate the scene for myself.'

'He was half-dead when you weren't here.'

Molly's voice stops him.

'Why are you telling me this?' he says, his voice coarser than usual.

Molly steps forward, looks at him. Did he think her timid once? She is _sometimes_, but that doesn't mean she hasn't any courage. She's always had courage, he thinks.

'He never forgot. He never would. It would take him ages to get to sleep. He's suffered. Mary knows she can't take your place…'

'Molly-'

'I know that's what you're worried about. And don't try and avoid the subject, because that'll just prove I'm right even more.'

There's a long pause between them. Sherlock has not moved from where he is, pipette in hand, putting God knows what on the corpse. 'I saw her today – Mary. She'll be good for him, give him what I wasn't able to.'

'You look sad saying it.'

'No, I don't.' He glances from the body to Molly, unsure. Disdain runs through him. Human emotion deterring him from the work. 'That's just my face.'

'It's a similar face to the one you wore before - when you told me you thought you were going to die.'

Sherlock strays from her gaze, focuses on what he knows, what he understands, what doesn't terrify him.

'I know the look. I've worn it myself with you – I – what I mean to say is that I know what it feels like to find yourself waiting for someone who might not – or can't - feel the same way.' He stares at her. _Of course_. He'd never understand it, why and how she could like him – why anyone would. It's puzzling in Irene, in Molly, in anyone whose eyes linger on him for too long. He's just been used to shutting it out: anything unnecessary to the work is deleted.

'I'm-'

'Don't – don't apologise. I just want you to know I'm here for you, as always.'

She doesn't smile. It's a fact, a truth. She nods and lets him carry on with the experiment, and somehow he's thankful that she now knows him so well – knows she can say more in a word or a glance than in a speech. He feels content, safe at least, until his mind starts racing, starts searching – as it has been those past three years – for what's missing.

His John.


	4. I'm Not The Girl You're Taking Home

Chapter 4

{**I'm Not The Girl You're Taking Home**} In which Sherlock experiences revelations and a new character makes an appearance.

_Somebody said you got a new friend  
>Does she love you better than I can?<em>

_So far away but still so near _

_(The lights go on, the music dies)  
>But you don't see me standing here<em>

_(I just came to say goodbye)_

_I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her,_  
><em>I'm giving it my all but I'm not the girl you're taking home<em>  
><em>I keep dancing on my own<em>

_(Dancing On My Own – Robyn)_

* * *

><p>The Bagatelle Club lingers with the smell of stale smoke. Sherlock enters the room in which a certain Ron Adair found himself the victim of a gun shot to the head. He hears Lestrade and the team enter through the door, Sally's whiny voice thinning the air behind Anderson. He doesn't make out the details of the conversation, doesn't want to, doesn't care to. He has had his head full of John and Mary since yesterday, and all he wants is the smoke to fill his lungs, for this case to fill his head, not the ordinary, unimportant, emotional compromise of mundane human existence.<p>

His reunion with Lestrade had been a silent one – he knew the DI always believed him – saw the guilt on his face – told him it was all fine, but that it would only be wise for Lestrade and New Scotland Yard to know he's alive, and not the whole of London as of yet.

'Report says,' Lestrade began, ruminating behind him, 'Adair liked gambling.'

'You astound me, Lestrade. I never would have thought Adair loved gambling, seeing as he died_ because_ of it.'

'W-what?'

'Someone was meant to pay him back. They clearly didn't want to,' he says, dryly. 'I trust you can pick up the rest of the evidence, Lestrade. I've something to do.'

He leaves, his mind wandering against the breaking landscape of the busy people of London. He wants his London, this case, to take the sting out of last night. Mycroft had come to visit him, tracking his movements as always.

He'd come home to find Mycroft sitting on his couch. Unsurprisingly. He knew the scent of governmental corruption anywhere.

'Mary,' Mycroft says, 'she seems nice. Pity that you can't hate her, even though you want to.'

'Don't you have a country to divide, a war to start?' Sherlock says, shooing his brother away.

'You know you've always said we weren't close, but as your brother it's my duty-'

'To _what_?'

'To warn you. I've not failed you, Sherlock. I told you the consequences of faking your death, what might happen when you returned. London goes on living, unchanged, I said, but you can be assured that John won't stay as constant.' Sherlock faces the window, anger rising in him. 'I told you he'd find someone, I asked you to confirm whether this was OK. The moment you said yes, I knew you had lied to me. The problem with someone as smart as you – you think John is igniting useless feelings in you.'

Sherlock turns to glare at him, murderous.

'But the fact is,' Mycroft says, nonchalantly, '_you're_ the lucky one. John isn't 'limiting' you. He's expanding your knowledge. You know me well, I've no use for things like this, but even for someone as - unsentimental - as myself, we all want a John in our life, no matter how much we deny it.'

Sherlock is silent. He cannot speak. He needs to shut himself away, to catalogue knowledge, but he finds his brother's speech rousing, magnetising him towards his John, towards his brilliant conductor of light…of course John has expanded his knowledge – he has to take in new facts everyday with just a glance at his friend. And while the attainment of knowledge fascinates him, keeps his mind nimble and lively, it scares him, keeps him up for nights. For John fills the areas of his mind he previously thought useless, trivial, unimportant…

'I seem to recall,' his brother continues, 'John asking you once what enlightened you in the mountains of Lhasa in Tibet.'

'Mycroft...'

Mycroft stares at him blandly, still speaking, 'Little did he know.'

'_Mycroft_.'

'I've spies everywhere, Sherlock. You look upon them as an inconvenience, I look upon them as – excuse the cliché – keys to your locked heart.'

'I've not got one,' but Sherlock sounds slightly desperate at this point, hand clamped to his head. Soon, he'll want, he'll need, the substance to make his head clear again, before John appeared, before the Fall.

'That's not what the monk in Tibet said to you, was it?'

Sherlock presses his eyes shut, forced to remind himself of the day:

His legs are crossed, his back long and straight, the wind tussling his curls of dark hair. The height of the mountains shadow him. The day is clear, the sky shockingly blue and untouched, far removed from London (could he even remember it now? He's sure he hasn't shaved for days, cut his hair for months, seen a cigarette in years – although these days he's dying for one.) but John, his John, is inescapable.

'You are looking for one that can be found on these mountains to the cities in the West because…' he heard the monk's voice calm behind him, light footsteps making their way towards him. He feels the monk sit down next to him, composed. 'Because the one you look for is here, always present, in your mind.' He feels a cool, long finger press again his forehead. He doesn't bother to respond. He's too tired.

'Who is the one you look for, Mr Holmes?'

'A friend.'

The smell of barley dough hits him, the strong meaty whiff of dried mutton, the pleasant heat and steam of jasmine tea. The monks are gathering for dinner.

He hears the monk laugh heartily. He opens his eyes wide, the view of the mountains breathing into him.

'Your body is ruled by your head. You do not care much for your heart.'

'I care a lot for it – as an organ that pumps blood around my body. Not as symbol for anything trivial.'

'Is the one you look for trivial?'

This takes him off guard. 'No…'

'He is your heart, you are his head.'

A low hum of chanting seeps out from the mouths of monks below, a constant steady drumming of sacred words.

'You are conflicted,' the monk continues, 'because you think the head and the heart are separate.' Sherlock looks at the monk for the first time this morning, incredulous. 'But the head,' he says, gently touching Sherlock's forehead, 'and the heart,' putting his palm to Sherlock's heart, 'have never worked more in harmony until now.'

And that is the moment in which Sherlock realises he is in pain because his John, _his heart_, is severed from him –

The moment he realises he loves him.

Sherlock feels his phone vibrate, the memory dissipates.

_Just checking you're alright. Haven't heard from you, and I've been worried. Did I – upset you?_

_JW_

Yes, yes you did, John. No – if he texted that, he would have to explain, and how could he really have the audacity to when, for three years, he not only hurt himself but John too?

He's angry, upset, staggered by the memory on the mountain of Lhasa, by the revelation – any revelation not attached to work is illogical, irrational.

It's getting dark, colder. Sherlock rubs his long, wraith-like fingers together, and texts John.

_I've a case to solve. I'll be at the Isis in Mayfair tonight._

_SH_

Minutes later his phone buzzes again.

_The Isis? You do realise that's a nightclub, don't you?_

_JW_

_I'm not entirely thrilled. But the location is unimportant to me, it's who I shall find there. _

_SH_

_I'm coming too. You're going to do something stupid, and I'd rather you not die. Again._

_JW_

* * *

><p>Sherlock is a majestic figure, tall with skin like alabaster against the London night, but with his collar turned up, and his movements quick, he knows he can avoid the eyes of the crowds. There are two types of clubbers, he observes: the drunk-before-they-get-to-the-venue type and the people who are sober enough to prey upon them.<p>

With a swift turn of his coat, he's inside the nightclub. He doesn't appreciate the head-numbing music pumping out from all corners of the space, the people and their awkward outstretched limbs like spiders, drunk, entangled within each other. He's at an advantage by the bar, where his eyes are free to roam, to scan the room. He needs information about Ron Adair's killer, although the synapses in his mind are already jumping from one conclusion to another.

Who's been advantaged and living off criminal masterminds? Who's had that taken away from them?

He's so tempted to take out a cigarette and smoke – the smell of one is wafting its way towards him seductively.

It compels him to turn his head to the left towards the scent. A young man, soft tufts of ginger curls, the club lights haloing around his head, is puffing smoke towards Sherlock's direction. There's a sensuality to the way the young man slides his mouth around the cigarette, holding it as if it were a delicate relic, his pale hand waving back and forth at ease, his chest exhaling, rising. Sherlock scans him in a second, a smile in the corner of his mouth. He's impeccably dressed, though – for a man of his rank, style, status – the grey Armani suit is a month old. He's beautiful, but sinister, a real spidery thread.

He looks back to the bartender, blankly, but directs his speech towards the young man.

'Hello, Sebastian. _You_ look very dapper.'

'Please, call me Seb. I thought you needed a little fix,' he says, calmly – his voice silky, light – no tension or strain, no unpredictability, 'you look like you haven't had a cig in months.'

'Did you know I was looking for you?'

'Knew you wouldn't be able _not_ to. This isn't the first time we've met after all.' A dark-hair woman, attractive, handling a couple of drinks, passes in his direction, and he holds her stare, a small smirk on his face. He takes a drink – champagne, he likes to imitate the lives he led before Moriarty's death like this – takes a long, drowning taste, thanks her slowly. Seb, with a suit like armour and a voice like sex.

Sherlock analyses his subtle peacock-like display. Three years ago it was all about the games being played. This year he has no time for them.

'No,' Sherlock says quietly, 'this isn't the first time we've met. You and Moriarty – you have a fetish for meeting people in dangerous circumstances.'

Seb finishes the last drop of his champagne. So, he drinks. A lot. The savouring his drink is an act of display for club members. Look at his eyes, the slight nervousness of his drumming fingers – he wants another.

'You took my boss down,' he says simply, with an exhale of smoke, 'I tried to take you down. It didn't work... I was ecstatic when I heard you were in London.'

'And you decided to give me a welcome home party? Killing an innocent man who demanded you pay him what you owed.'

'Gambling…such a waste. And I knew murder's your flame, and you're a moth to it. When there's a crime, there you are, running towards it, _burning_.'

'And how does Daddy Moran feel about this?' Sherlock sneers. He's wondering where John is, if he's safe.

'Oh! God knows! He's too busy – starting wars, finishing them – I never know which. But you know how it is – family. They never understand.'

'I don't think it wise for you compare yourself to me.'

'What – to the great Sherlock Holmes?' There's a lingering glance between them. A tall, rugged, but handsome man – slightly older than Moran, who looks like he's in his late twenties – looks Seb up and down. Sherlock rolls his eyes, impatient.

Seb glances over the man in a nonchalant fashion, although Sherlock notes he's pleased with all the attention, and he doesn't discriminate with gender. Facts, filling up his mind. He needs John to be _here_.

'Where's your John, ay?' he hears Seb say quietly.

'He's not-'

'You need to stop denying it. You died three years for him. You defending yourself just makes it gayer.' Sherlock tenses. He didn't appreciate Seb, like a weed, entangling himself in the privacy of Sherlock's mind. 'Or there'll be rainbows sprouting from your mouth soon.'

Seb says this with a pleasant, sing-song tone, glancing behind him. 'Anyway,' he continues, 'he's here. Wouldn't leave you, wouldn't go back on his word. By God, no.' He leans in closer, whispers in Sherlock's ear. 'That's not what we soldiers do.' Sherlock feels the sharp warmth of Seb's breath on his ear, the smoke climbing up his nose. 'Besides, you can relax. Seems preoccupied with a woman.'

Sherlock turns sharply. Pain. It hurts. Can feel it in his body. Shame rising in his chest – because Seb knows, observes, is looking at the surprise in his eyes. He'd give anything to delete what he is seeing. He is naked, vulnerable. He loathes himself.

There's John, Mary entwined into his arms, kissing him thoroughly. She is facing him, and John's eyes open for his second – taken by surprise by the lengthy kiss – and he sees Sherlock staring back at him.

'I'll see you later,' he says sharply to Seb.

Seb smiles. 'Wouldn't have it any other way, Sherlock.' He mimics a shooting motion with his right hand lazily, wavering towards John, who is wide-eyed – just to make the great Sherlock Holmes die a little more inside – but back onto his intended target, the man with the billowing coat, striding out into the darkness and cold air, away from human sentiment.

By the time John lets go of Mary, he has lost Sherlock in the crowd – and the handsome man he recognises as Sebastian Moran – who is no longer at the bar. A snake of smoke is all that's left in his seat, and the remains of his eau de cologne.

Sherlock is far from this place, his mind carving out the places where John resides, looking for the thing that helps him forget that he cannot be John's, that he isn't, that he is not the one John is taking home.

* * *

><p>Notes: Sebastian Moran (or Seb) appears for the first time in this fanfic, even though he's mentioned before. In my mind, he looks like the actor Damian Lewis. I've no idea why, I think I have a thing for redheads. Also, the Isis Club is a real club in Mayfair, although I've never been to it and I've no idea what it looks like. Judging by its location, I assume it's a very wealthy nightclub, and it was the perfect place for Sherlock to meet Seb who oozes a sort of rebel glamour. The song playing in the club – though I don't mention in it the fanfic – is 'Dancing By Myself' by Robyn which is a lovely dancy track, though it's incredibly sad.<p>

Anyway I hope you enjoyed it! Please review to let me know what you liked/what you would like to see – that's the only way I know I'm doing something right/what I need to improve. Love you all like Mycroft loves cake!


	5. To Fall In The Water Just Like A Stone

Notes: A character refers to a line from Hamlet (Ay, there's the rub), there's the implication of drug use, and some angst. This was largely inspired by listening to the beautiful Agnes Obel's Riverside and a wonderful, poignant scene from the film _Third Star_.

{Chapter 5 – **To Fall In The Water Just Like A Stone/Bodies**}

In which Mary, John, and Sherlock deal with the aftermath of events at the Isis Club.

'_I walk to the borders on my own,_

_Fall in the water just like a stone,_

_Chilled to the marrow in them bones_

_Why do I go here all alone?_

_Oh my god I see how everything is torn_

_In the river deep'_

**_(Riverside by Agnes Obel)_**

'_I think I might've inhale you_

_I could feel you behind my eyes_

_You gotten into my bloodstream_

_I could feel you floating in me'_

**_(Bloodstream by Stateless)_**

* * *

><p>'He'll be fine, John – whatever it is he's upset about, it'll be fine,' Mary says, turning away from John in bed. He think she's gone to sleep, but she's far from it, her thoughts spilling from her mind.<p>

Of course it isn't fine. It never is. One kiss, her rightful kiss from John, and now it's in ruins.

Their house appears doll-like now, she thinks – who is she to play the housewife, to hoard the pretty china teacups, the plates, the white-laced napkins? She never knew such a role in her life, she always grew up despising it, not wanting it. But then she finds John and wants to make up for what he has been lacking. But she has not changed, nor does he try to change her. She is still the same girl who appeared in Lestrade's office in a man's tweed jacket and loose-fitting trousers, stoically greeting a certain Dr. John Watson and defiant in getting her father back.

So she's pretending to sleep, biting her lip, refraining from saying words which might hurt John, weaken him, let him stay with her for a bit longer before he has to run to Sherlock – she wants to do it, to not be the hero and tell him she wants him to stay, even if it isn't for the right reasons. She is losing.

But she and John are warriors – in different ways, but warriors nonetheless, and neither will admit defeat.

Whatever John's thinking – even if she knows (oh God – this one hurts) that his thoughts aren't burning with images of her but of Sherlock – at least he's alive, safe, breathing. And that's all she thought at the time of the kiss, alive and breathing, sucking the soul out of him before Sherlock could get to him again –

'Mary…'

'Mmm?'

'Goodnight.' She feels the warmth of his kiss against her forehead. Time to put her armour on, time to arm herself, time not to feel pain.

As for John, he's been texting Sherlock. There's a feeling in his stomach, a kind of intuition that Sherlock never cares for but is the very thing that's now his undoing, The way Sherlock looked at him at The Isis – he hadn't seen it coming then – Mary kisses him, glad to see him, to be with him, and he'd been scanning for Sherlock –

And then Sherlock looks at him as if he's dissected all parts of his heart and brain, as if he's ruined him – he rarely sees Sherlock so broken.

He checks his phone. No new messages.

He can't close his eyes – the night is too raw on his mind. He lets out a hollow breath, remembers the first appointment with the therapist after Sherlock's supposed death.

'_The stuff you wanted to say, but didn't say it…'_

He knows he and Sherlock have a bond that's…inexplicable, that people comment and joke, but all he really understands is that he cares for Sherlock – then the day they were reunited, what had he realised?

He puts his hands on his head, Sherlock haunting him even when he isn't dead. but he cannot bring himself to say it – he had never said it about anyone, not in a way in which he meant it – to _say it_ is serious, to say it is like making an oath, he's an army man and a doctor and he doesn't go back on his oaths, and oh God, what if he really does – what if his feelings for Sherlock are more than –

Mary stirs beside him. John looks down at her, something like guilt rising in his chest. He starts his hand towards her head, to pat, to stroke, to caress – some sort of loving gesture – but he hesitates, stops. All gestures are empty now.

Mary thinks her tears dry before they can run, she hates them – tears – prefers to stare at the blank wall in front of her, to face things like they should be faced.

She must have known this all along, when John didn't – doesn't. When John will leave in the morning, and she turns to find the bed empty with a loving note and tea, she knows where he will be and why. John does not and cannot love her.

John is in love with Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Sherlock knows what it is to be wrecked. He is not shy of his past, though a little defensive of it. But he can happily, if not with a sneer, admit that at the moment of seeing John and Mary kiss he was wrecked himself.<p>

There are four nicotine patches – of various doses, he barely cares – stuck like another layer of skin on his left arm. He's ignored John's text, with good reason – he needs time to breathe before he can shrug off John's concern with a simple _'I got the information I needed. There was no need for me to be at The Isis anymore'_.

In his right hand, as he slumps onto the couch staring blankly at the ceiling, is a glass of whiskey. Mrs Hudson is out tonight. He's safe. No questions, no enquiring about John, no innuendo.

Could his brother be right? God – that will kill him, to admit that his brother is right. In Lhasa, Tibet, it was perfectly logical of him to think of John…

He never thought John useless, never thought him ordinary, wouldn't have bothered approaching him if he was.

'_But the fact is, you're the lucky one. John isn't 'limiting' you.'_

Of course not. John – his conductor of light, his anchor when he drifts too far. What if the anchor started to become attractive? He'd no time for love, feeling, sex – these areas of the brain aren't needed, they get in the way of the work, they are completely irrational to his mode of thinking…

'_We all want a John in our life, no matter how much we deny it.'_

What happens when the conductor of light started to look beautiful? He doesn't care for trivial things – but he's now determined that beauty is defined by John. John is one point of the universe, Sherlock the other. They revolve around each other. They cannot help it, this gravity, this pull between them. It is terrifying when they almost collide.

The almost-kiss at their reconciliation. The shocking potential of what _could_ happen, but didn't. How could he not feel anything but anger when he saw Mary and John kiss – for Mary is roaming within a orbit that was once completely his and John's – how many thousands of kisses, caresses, embraces, have they shared?

The room spins. Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective, deluded into thinking John is _his_ John.

Sherlock half-smiles to himself, drink in hand, sweltering in semi-drunkenness. _No._ John is too good, too honourable, too striking to be chained to a Holmes. Selfish of him, selfish of Mary, not wanting to share him with the world.

He squints, unsure. Something wet rolls down his cheek. He grazes a finger to his cheek. A tear. It's strange and foreign, and he wants to dispose of it.

He gets up, slurring, but determined, not to be messed with, to rid himself of this – _disease_ of the mind, letting John expand and then destroy what makes him who he is. And he thinks, once, _he_ was the dangerous one.

* * *

><p>He's in Hampton Heath, a rambling hilly place, his dark figure a Heathcliff against the moors. He is ancient and in ruins this early morning in summer. It's early and near empty, just as he needs it to be, to let his brain engulf the place, to plant his thoughts and wire them into the ground like plants. He can re-imagine the data, the moments: himself and Mycroft, young, mother, father, short brisk trips in the mornings, the sun lit behind them, his eyes soaking in the measurements and movements of people. A rare, happy place.<p>

He closes his eyes, lets out a breath. The view of London is below him, somewhere in the chaos his small Baker Street flat and, a couple of roads down, John and Mary, a couple fitting with each other, intimate, sleeping.

He walks further. A lake, still, virginal, pure. He wants his mind to be like this, to strip back all the chaos, put back the order…

Like a ritual, he sinks his body deep into the water. He doesn't bother swimming, he just moves against the current, dipping his head in and out of the lake. He hopes to drown out John, but with each stroke, it feels impossible, stupid, absurd.

'Mycroft told me you'd be here.'

The voice pierces him. He doesn't turn around or look back. He knows his John when he hears him.

'Spying on me, is he?'

'Sherlock, this is ridiculous. Whatever I've done…come out of the water.'

He hears John splashing behind him, entering the lake.

'I'm fine where I am John.'

'_Sherlock_.' The voice is warm against his ear. 'God, you've been drinking…are those nicotine patches on your arm?'

'Those are redundant questions, John.'

'Don't be a smartass – not now – bloody hell, you're shaking, Sherlock.'

'John, ask the right question.'

John pauses. 'Why did you leave when you saw Mary kiss me.' He can't help it, his voice wavers.

Sherlock turns to him. John is pained to see how dissolute Sherlock looks. 'Ay, there's the rub.'

They're not sure what they're doing – whatever it is – this business of leaning in towards each other – its dangerous, it's probably wrong, there's Mary, there's the work. But all those years John thinks Sherlock's dead, all those moments Sherlock spent wishing away distracting thoughts of John in his head – what will they come down to?

John dives towards Sherlock's mouth. It's done. It's too late. Sherlock is like the lake that's virginal, pure, now coming undone. He's sure he's making ungodly noises, grasping for every inch of John, the wetness of their clothes seeping through, skin to skin.

They break apart. Sherlock can't speak, words cannot edify, educate, inform – he can't yet form intelligible phrases, to mock, scathe, impress. The feel of another pressed against his lips is entirely new knowledge, bursting in his head. John is taking up space again, taking up all the signals between each synapse in his brain.

But nothing is said by neither of them. John has a stern look upon his face, softening when he places Sherlock's arm over his shoulders, half-carrying him, things undeclared hanging between them.

* * *

><p>Back at Baker Street, the substances, the alcohol, are leaving his bloodstream, the body surrendering to warmth and rest. Sherlock is not sure the rest of the room, or the world, exists. His eyes are on John.<p>

John is uncomfortable… too much exposure, too much vulnerability, too worried that Sherlock – even if wrecked – can deduce him, get under his skin, look through him. He simply avoids eye contact.

'You're going to need a shower, Sherlock…' He doesn't bother looking up, he feels Sherlock's breath, eyes, on him.

He keeps his hand steady, God knows the rest of him isn't, to stick to the task ahead. First the coat, the unravelling of the scarf, still damp, the unbuttoning of the shirt, the tender loosening of the belt – flesh.

In the shower, he lets Sherlock stand, bracing him, the water smoothing over them. He tries not to gaze at this tall man, always distant, strong, now bare.

Bodies. He's seen them. All kinds: alive, beating, dying, beautiful, repulsive, light, dark, smooth, rough, scarred, untouched. He's seen them in battle and he's seen them in hospital.

But Sherlock is different. The alabaster skin, sheltering him, the delicate organs, the heart, the lungs, the _brain_; the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the sharp, punctuated collarbone, the abdominal muscles, sculpted, the imprint of veins, the unpainted canvas of his back, the delicate strength of hamstrings, the curves ripening around the pelvis…

It's safer to clothe him, to cover him back up, though John thinks he'll never be able to – or want – erase such a wonderful sight.

And once he places Sherlock into his bed, who's not far from dozing off into a deep sleep, he hears him call his name softly.

'John… _John_, I – if you could stay…'

'I wasn't going to leave.'

'I thought – perhaps after what happened at the lake-'

John lies beside him. 'Tomorrow, Sherlock. _Please_, for me, sleep.'

'That protocol – the request that people ask for when they … when they need comfort – may I -?'

John answers with an embrace that fills Sherlock's body with undocumented warmth, safe, stationary, bodies that are meant to fit each other, not to fall.


	6. Your Mouth Is Poison, Your Mouth Is Wine

**Notes**: I mention _The Independent_ in here – for those of you aren't in the UK, it's a popular newspaper (and my favourite) and you can see a glimpse of John reading it in _The Reichenbach Fall._ I've titled this chapter after a lyric in the brilliant _Poison and Wine_ by Civil Wars, because I think it's fitting of the aftermath of the kiss between John and Sherlock. Consequently, there's a Johnlock video that I saw with the same song, and it's brill - if you'd like to see it here's the link (youtube): watch?v=lH3IQG-eBN8&list=FLgNNVny2DEdOnaEzDunNBPw&index=3&feature=plpp_video

Irene makes an appearance here for the first time – she was fun to write. I'm not sure if I'll include her again (depends if it's relevant to the story and if you guys want to see her again). Also, in Chapter 5, there's a reference to Heathcliff from one of my favourite novels_ Wuthering Heights_, which I forgot to mention last time.

Hope you enjoy this one and, if you can, please review! It really does let me know what I'm doing right, what I can improve, or what you'd like to see in future chapters – and it makes me smile! :) Thanks for favouriting, reviewing, and putting my story on alert - you are wonderful people!

* * *

><p>{Chapter 6 - <strong>Your mouth is poison. Your mouth is wine<strong>} In which Sherlock and Irene question the nature of sexuality.

_You know everything I don't want you to_

_I know everything you don't want me to_

_Your mouth is poison_

_Your mouth is wine_

_You think your dreams are the same as mine_

_Your hands can heal, your hands can bruise,_

_I don't have a choice, but I still choose you_

**_(Poison and Wine by Civil Wars)_**

* * *

><p>Pain. That's the aftermath of having one too many, taking a little too much nicotine patches to the skin, a little too much alcohol in the system. Pain, welcoming him through his body; pain, the experience of the ordinary, and it's shooting through Sherlock's body with vengeance.<p>

It shoots through his muscles, veins, opens his eyes with force.

Oh dear God.

He tentatively clasps his lips, sore, tenderly sore from the force of another's lips upon his.

_He kissed John. John kissed him. _

He presses his eyes shuts, wills his brain to focus, slightly groggy from last night's endeavours:

_Water. Virginal. Daylight that breaks the surface of a lake. Parliament and the pretty parts of London scattered over the skyline, far away from where he is. Wanting to give his mind a break, relief, release…walking into the waters, a sense of drowning. A voice, warm, calm, loving, John's. Questions, ask the right ones, John. But he always does. A temptation in his chest he's never had before, one that overrules the head – the rational and the scientific. He'd been fighting it, seeing him with Mary, that's why he can't function properly. He's been fighting his heart, when the heart works well with the head. Bullocks. It's bullocks and he knows it, yet he's not stopping. He wants to complete the puzzle, the gap between John and himself._

Sherlock opens his eyes. The moment of collision, their kiss, he cannot coherently describe, though he is sure it will plague the recesses of his mind in surges of yearning and despair. It is beyond anything that he's catalogues in his brain, beyond all cases and all experiments.

How can he detail the surprising rush of heat when John presses his lips to his own, the chaste kisses, small, plucked one after the other, bruising him, making him ache for more, the not-so-chaste-kisses where the slight brush of John's tongue against his lips makes him cry out noises he's sure he's never been capable of before?

The first kiss.

It did not matter at that moment, the collision between them, the awkward knock against their noses, hungry for connection and closeness.

What matters are the consequences. Sherlock never cares for kisses, for intimacy; the need to swap saliva is revolting to him. But then John comes, defies what he has thought all his life, and he finds himself wanting, needing… desire… something new.

There's Irene, of course. The woman. But the attraction is that of intellect – on his part, anyway. She's pleasing to behold, but what makes her so is her mind, and he doubts others can see beyond her nakedness, her sexuality. She shed her clothes when they met, but she could not conceal her intellect. That surprised him. Indeed, he did not expect to have to deal with emotions, feelings, sex – he experienced, perhaps for what feels like after a thousand years of winter, grief when he thought her dead, and took it out on his violin. It was the death of a connection he once made, the death of another mind he could almost hold onto a similar level as his.

John is a category of his own. John is everywhere and everything.

He touches his lips again, breathes heavily. He's not sure if he should be elated or terrified. Discoveries always thrilled him, but they were of science, of things that were fact, universal truths.

Human issues waver, they never interest him, and he has to separate himself from them (easy when you're told your odd, unfeeling, a sociopath).

John, who knows how to please others, in friendship, in relationships, in sex. John, who probably had lovers, knew the anatomy of another, the feel of foreign skin.

Sherlock is The Virgin. He sneers. Labels. Fine when they're on a bottle of a chemical, but absurd when attached to the human condition, a thing so perplexing that people have agonised to write about it, figure it out, understand it.

_Oh, the shower. He was off his head when that happened, but he remembers John's hand, the careful touch applied to his skin._

Arousal? Perhaps he experienced it. He isn't sure. He's repressed it for some time – what need is there for it, he's always told himself, when it gets in the way of the work? People seem willing to shag their brains to mush. That never appealed to him.

But he remembers the way the water ran, the unusual sensuality between clothed John and his naked self.

And a lack of control. His mind can't deduce anything, when it's too busy trying to recover the body from shock and stimulants, from John's touch.

Then there's Mary. She's not stupid. Surely John's texted her, a line to say politely what's happened, but he bets she's already predicted it all. She knows, she's smarter than she lets on, she understands how rare and precious a thing as a John can be in someone's life.

_What about morals? Is he now the other man?_

He can't think in such terms. John is good, moral, he's probably in throngs of guilt, probably abhors the sight of him now… but Sherlock's never been good at being moral, whatever that was. He got excited by the thought of solving murder at the expense of the demise of the victim, he's ensnared in the mind games of criminal masterminds, he's prepared to burn, to shake hands with a man in hell. He's not got the capability of thinking in such _human_ terms.

All he knows is that any decision he makes from now on comes from one point of time, memory, existence – and that's John. So if people will think – as surely they will (how easy the fickle public are to predict) when he reveals himself officially to the London that once despised him – he's a hero for dying, that's their choice.

He remembers John, and all things turning to white. He must have John _live_, for John is one of the extraordinary things the world has done right. There's no straight, gay, or bisexual; no right or wrong, black or white, religious or atheist. There's just John. He eclipses all.

He finds this beautiful and petrifying.

He looks to his left, the imprint of John left behind in his bed. He hears the kettle boiling, the unwinding of cups and saucers, the opening and closing of cupboards. John, living and existing. John in the kitchen, in his flat, on his lips, in his mind. John and the universe and nothing else between.

His phone buzzes.

_Now there's just one of us dead. Boring. I've got to talk to you – I'm afraid while you've been a little distracted, Seb's only been more fervent in his goal to get you._

_IA_

* * *

><p>John is taking the very soldierly and British stance today of acting like nothing's happened. While he appears to occupy the mundane domesticity of life, the usual routine he and Sherlock had kept before the Fall, he is far from calm on the inside.<p>

What happened to all those moments spent denying he and Sherlock were a couple? He's always brushed it off, even if it annoys him. At Angelo's, their first time sitting together, he didn't think much of the questions he asked. Sherlock's handsome, intelligent, a little lacking in bedside manners, but attractive. He'd seen the looks he got from both men and women, and he was tentative of the awe he first felt at witnessing Sherlock's skills of deduction.

But that was that, at the time. No romantic inclinations or fleeting butterflies in his stomach. Of course, the first word on his lips since they met was Sherlock, and perhaps it was telling that he shot a man to save his life when they'd barely known each other for a few hours.

But that was called having a connection, a _bond_, something electric between them. Sherlock saved him, and he saved Sherlock.

Now he thinks, stirring the tea with a heavy heart and tired eyes, that Sherlock might have caught onto something he did not have the power of observing.

He looks down at his hand, swirling the sugar and the milk into the tea, and wonders if he can find his sexuality whizzing down there in the mix.

That's one thing he hadn't thought of until now, and it seems – with the morning light coming through the curtains and the tranquil act of making tea – it's the perfect time for a sexual crisis.

He's never looked at another man the way he looks at Sherlock. He's not even sure he's looked at a woman in the same way. There'd been women, of course – and he's had no regrets, but his sexuality was always a stable thing, so much so that he didn't need to think about it.

Sherlock needs a category of his own accord. He feels his heart reverberate, that pounding beneath the skin. He's done for.

He places two cups on a tray, waits for his to cool before he sips, and unfolds _The Independent _and starts to read.

Sherlock enters the living room, dishevelled hair, hand over his forehead. When he sees John, he straightens into a more graceful pose, making himself tower over the room.

'Morning,' he says.

'Morning,' John nods, before sipping his tea and glancing back to his newspaper. 'I made you tea.'

He walks towards John and the tray. Their bodies are an inch apart for a moment, and John and Sherlock lock eyes, and in that second the memory of last night between them is unravelled, like tape, in unspoken codes (the shifting of eyes, the quick glance towards the mouth, the lingering of a gaze, wanting to steal kisses from each other there and then).

'Thank you,' Sherlock says, and the words come out so heavily, that John knows too well that he really means _thank you for last night and for everything._

John catches a glimpse of the curvature of Sherlock's lips, the passing arousal, the memory of drinking up for those minutes every thought and pattern of the other man's mind and soul; and Mary appears in his mind, and suddenly it turns to a shivering feeling of guilt. Sherlock's, a mouth and lips he's so easily drunk on, yet how pulsating and poisonous the memory of a kiss becomes. He touches his lips, much in the same way as Sherlock has been doing absent-mindedly for the past hour, as if commemorating something that's rotten and died, never to return.

Sherlock is conflicted, but he's mastering his movements in large, lazy sweeping motions. His limbs portray a confidence that no one would believe is faltering. His mind races: should he talk about Irene's text or the kiss? _The text or the kiss, the case or the things unsaid between them, the work or emotion, the head or the heart, decide, decide, decide._

'Irene texted me.'

John looks up, mid-way through sipping his tea. 'The Woman? _Her_?'

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, a slight rising of his eyebrow. Interesting.

'Yes. Isn't that nice? All of us together. A reunion.'

'Sarcasm - you're mastering it well.'

'I'm hoping she's got information about Sebastian, but she seems to be telling me what everyone else is.'

'And that's…?'

'That Sebastian wants me dead.'

John gulps. An uncomfortable silence. He looks away, hands clenched. Normal soldierly reaction, Sherlock thinks. He cares, doesn't want him to die, someone cares for _him_…

'But he seems to be going about it an awfully long time,' Sherlock continues. 'He's not on the level of insanity as his previous boss, but he's got a calm hunger in him. I've destroyed his income, so he wants to destroy me. He's waiting… he doesn't want to miss a hit.'

* * *

><p>221B Baker Street has never been so crowded. Irene is elegantly composed, calculated, on a chair, Molly somewhat awkward on the sofa, John reassuring her with a smile, and Sherlock pacing, doing what he does best.<p>

'What could you have been doing to distract you so much from Seb, I wonder?' she says, her mouth quirking into a smile.

Sherlock doesn't look at her, has his hands pressed together as if in prayer, and John wonders if he's doing this to divert Irene.

'I passed your bedroom, Sherlock,' she starts, 'your sheets look a little shabbier than usual.'

'Have you come here to make fruitless comments about my bed linen or to inform me about Sebastian Moran?' Sherlock hisses. First mistake. He realises, he turns away; he's responded with emotion.

Irene laughs light-heartedly. 'I've missed this.'

John tries not to shift uncomfortably, Irene glances sideways at him with a glint in her eye, and Molly looks profoundly confused. 'Um, what did you mean by the shabby sheets – I don't understand,' she says, 'the only one who comes around here occasionally is John and-'

'_Molly_.' Sherlock's voice is ice, he can't help it.

She looks at him, and he returns the gaze. 'Oh…' she says, '_Oh_.'

'We didn't – it's not what you – oh for heaven's-' John starts, and Sherlock's impatience is showing through his limbs, the twiddling of his hands in his hair, his volitric expression.

'You've obviously come to tell me about the empty house opposite 221B,' Sherlock says, glancing at Irene.

'You noticed it,' she smiles.

'_Of course_.'

'It wasn't always empty, it used to be occupied, and then the current tenants moved mysteriously a week ago. No doubt I don't have to tell you who'd want a clear shot from their window to yours.'

'Sebastian.'

Something changes subtly in Irene's nonchalant expression, something more serious. 'I warn you, Sherlock - Seb isn't Moriarty, he's isn't insane, and I'm sure that may seem an advantage at first. But he's always had this ability to psychologically deconstruct a person's mind – to understand their insecurities, the very thing they keep locked inside – and use it against them. He doesn't play games, no. He's a soldier, and he likes to get things done in a matter-of-fact way. Surely, you understand know what I mean, John?'

'I've a question,' John says, frowning, his attention shifting to Sherlock. 'That night at the Isis…what did Sebastian say to you?'

'_Where's your John, ay?' he hears Seb say quietly._

'_He's not-'_

'_You need to stop denying it. You died three years for him. You defending yourself just makes it gayer.'_

Sherlock opens his mouth, hesitates. Damn.

'_Anyway,' he continues, 'he's here. Wouldn't leave you, wouldn't go back on his word. By God, no.' He leans in closer, whispers in Sherlock's ear. 'That's not what we soldiers do.' Sherlock feels the sharp warmth of Seb's breath on his ear, the smoke climbing up his nose. 'Besides, you can relax. Seems preoccupied with a woman.'_

'He was blasé about the whole thing – some drivel about how I've taken his boss from him.'

'Interesting,' Irene chimes. 'Didn't make a remark about your personal life?'

The thing is Sherlock is staring straight at John – they hold their gaze, they look away.

Irene is leaning back into the chair, one leg crossed over the other. 'Interesting.'

'Molly,' Sherlock says, 'I need you to show me the lab results of the corpse I experimented on the other day…' Molly looks at him properly. 'Please.' Did she note desperation in his voice, the quiet begging of a great detective? She thinks she did.

'Yes, OK, of course…'

And they lead each other into one corner of the room by the light, so that they're at one end and John and Irene are at the other.

Great, John thinks. Alone with The Woman is just like being alone with another, alternate part of Sherlock himself. He'd never escape him.

'So,' Irene says, sitting next to him, hands clasped, business-like. 'When did you kiss him?'

'Wha-?'

'Oh, do save the redundant questions, Dr. Watson. You forget that my profession revolves around sex. If you two don't look like people who are at it with each other, then I'm not in the right sphere of work.'

John's face hardens. 'We're doing no such thing.'

'You must have liked it then. Look at you beneath than hardened exterior, you're blushing. Take care not to let Sherlock see, that's if he hasn't deduced it already.'

'Well, _you_ would know.'

'Oh! _Jealousy!_ Show that to him… it's sexy. If that won't make him rip the clothes off your back, I don't know what will.'

'You sound like you haven't got over him yourself.'

'No one gets over him,' she says seriously. 'And few can understand his mind.'

'Except you. The Woman.'

'And you, the Army Doctor.' He looks at her incredulously. 'I may have interested him once, but that was intellectual. You see, Dr. Watson, I lost the game.'

'Love isn't a _game_.'

'Oh, and you haven't played it well?' she asks. 'The way he looked at you… I only wonder if I could get someone to look at me in that way.'

'What are you talking about? Men and women pour themselves all over you.'

'That's sex. Pure sex. Sex and power.'

'And…' he coughs, 'Sherlock and I?'

'The glances between you two – you devour each other. There's an aspect that's sexual, of course, but I believe it goes far beyond that.'

'But I'm not-'

'Gay. How uninteresting. Who cares? We both like to sleep with women, but we have a bit of a thing for consulting detectives.'

'But you're going to have to reveal yourself soon, Sherlock…'

Molly's voice interrupts them and they instinctively stand up.

'There's already been blurry photos,' Molly says, 'the 'is he or isn't he dead?' captions in the newspapers.'

'I will officially, once Moran's been sorted. I'll not put John through more trauma.'

Something inside John's chest swells, a kind of warmth. Irene smiles knowingly.

Molly takes the documents and scans she's been showing to Sherlock and shuffles them neatly. She feels the heat of someone behind her, looking over her shoulder.

'I'll have a look at those, if you don't mind,' Irene says.

'Oh, right – 'course. Take anything.'

Irene faces her, perhaps a little too closely, handling the documents with ease, locking eyes with her. 'I will.'

Sherlock watches Molly's brow furrow in confusion, then loosen in understanding, observes the way her eyes quickly avert Irene's gaze only to quickly follow the silhouetted lines of her body.

Irene and her games… John thinks there'll be two sexual crises before the day's done.


	7. When They Were Young, Part 1

**Notes:** I'm afraid our dear John isn't in this one, but he's going to get a special chapter next time I update anyway, though his name comes up quite often on the lips of other characters…The two songs I've quoted below echoed the characters in this chapter so well, I could not resist. They're also amazing songs – I recommend them.

The song that Mrs Hudson plays and sings along to later in this chapter is called 'The Homing Waltz' by Vera Lynn, produced in the early fifties which is relevant to Mrs H's storyline. I want to also remind you, though you probably already know, Mrs Hudson's husband was evicted of murder and executed – which Sherlock ensured (mentioned in _A Study in Pink_). This chapter is the first-part to another, which I've yet to write, though it will most definitely be called 'Peter' (Part 2).

* * *

><p>{Chapter 7 – <strong>When They Were Young (Part 1)<strong>} In which Mary visits her father. Meanwhile, Lestrade deduces something, Seb remembers Jim, and Mrs Hudson recollects her first love during the Cold War.

_You sit there in your heartache_

_Waiting on some beautiful boy_

_To save you from your old ways_

_You play forgiveness,_

_Watch it now, here he comes._

_He doesn't look a thing like Jesus_

_But he talks like a gentleman_

_Like you imagined when you were young_

_**(When you were young by The Killers)**_

_And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones.  
>'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs.<br>Setting fire to our insides for fun  
>Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong<br>The lovers that went wrong._

_We are the reckless,_  
><em>We are the wild youth<em>  
><em>Chasing visions of our futures<em>

_**(Youth by Daughter)**_

* * *

><p>Mary walks towards her father's house. She hasn't set foot upon its gravel grounds for years, and now she's coming back, perhaps resentfully, with a new kind of emotion in her chest. The last time she was here, that emotion was defiance: she made it clear she was independent; that her father was clinging onto a time that's been dead for centuries.<p>

Now that emotion is fear – with a hint of what? Humility, shame, foreboding?

The 'hellos' between them are brief, formal, restrained.

'I'm surprised I should see you here,' her father says. He's aged, she thinks, more than his years.

'I owed you a visit.'

'_Owed?_' He laughs. Mary is not sure whether to be insulted or at ease. Her father's voice is one that booms, that depletes anyone else's voice in the room. His frame is tall, slightly plump, and God forbid that he should ever be caught not wearing his trademark suit. Mary thought he slept with it on as a child. 'Mary, my daughter, I've lived long enough in this world to know that when someone visits you when they haven't in years, it's because something in their life has changed. Spit it out. You're a Morstan, for God's sake. I bred you a warrior. Speak up.'

Mary presses her eyes shut. The uncomfortable childhood memories spitting themselves out before her like something bitter on her tongue. Morstans are a strange bunch. Stiff-lipped and uneasy with emotion: she's the breakaway, the weed in a bunch of lilies. She's not a damsel, she'd known that for what feels like forever, that to face things by crying would do no good. But every now and then, a voice – deep, throated, like her father's – enters her mind, and suddenly she's timid, shy, weak. Mary Morstan in a sentence, the woman who does not know the compromise between feeling and strength and that they can both be one and the same thing.

She opens her eyes. Her father is standing by the fireplace, the garden beyond the French-décor doors fading into white sunlight behind him. He holds a bottle of – what's that? Whiskey – _Jack Daniels_, preferably, in his hands, pours some out into a glass – pointedly looking at her (menial work with delicate hands; he's above this _degradation_) and places it silently on the table before her. She's like a deer, he thinks. He always assumed alcohol gave the illusion of making things better.

'John and I-'

'You're still with that Watson fellow? Hm. Served in the army, I remember you telling me.'

'Yes. Dad, we're in trouble.'

Her father looks at her. 'This is a money issue? That's strange. In the past, a letter from you, and not a visit, always sufficed. What's with the sudden change?'

'No, it's not that kind of trouble…' She looks up at him plainly. 'I think things are falling apart between us.'

Her father stands, rigid like the portrait of him, when he served in India as a Captain, above his head. 'There's another woman?' though he states it rather than asks.

'No, not quite. I think it's – you see the silly thing is,' she says, fighting with herself not to cry, 'I might have known, I might have always known from the way he used to talk about him.'

'_Him?_'

'I don't think John loves me the same way as he loves another. God knows he's tried to.'

'He's leaving you for another _man?_'

'He won't leave until I say something… I know it. He's proper. I've been holding onto something neither of us can have.'

She feels her father's anger without even looking at him. But she doesn't care. Saying it out loud is helping her to understand what she could not when she had kept it to herself for months.

Her father stutters. Not something that rears itself everyday. 'So that's it?' he says, his voice gruff. 'You're going to give up, lose the battle?'

There's his rhetoric again, she thinks, roaring over her like they're comrades at war and not father and daughter.

'You're going to,' he says, 'let this man go so he can – so he can _bugger_ it up with another man?'

She smiles to herself. She couldn't care less if Sherlock was a man or a woman. That did not matter to her. It was the very notion that John could not love her in the same way. What she wants, but knows she can't get, is for her father to hold her, perhaps offer her a lie or two _('He'll love you…love takes time')_ but instead he is more alarmed by his daughter's boyfriend leaving her for a man. That's a double disgrace in his mind.

She wonders if she feels shame now, but that's even diminished. She feels – pity – pity towards her father. She's trying to hate Sherlock as much as she knows he's trying to hate her, but they can't quite sustain a level of abhorrence. They've both experienced the love, at least in some degree, of a John, the promise and hope of intimacy, whether it's the meeting of flesh on flesh on a Sunday afternoon or a cup of tea after a case. She sees now there's no difference between the touch of John she melts into so often or the accidental brush of hands between two flatmates sharing tea. It's merely the fact that one act of intimacy is reciprocal, the other is not.

And she pities her father, more than herself for what she is bound to lose. Even if her father had loved her mother, and she never hears him say it, she wonders if the firm movements of this man's body, the stiff mouth, the cold eyes, could ever understand the kind of intimacy she has gained and lost.

And as her father yells at her, she sits composed, the folds of her summer dress thinly tucked under her, her shoulders levelled, her hair kept neatly in a loose bun. Summer on her bare skin, and her father's biting words spitting back at her, but nothing much changes. This house, in this living room, when she was younger (for she feels old now for someone who's not even reached 30), it was the same. Except there's an absence of her father, and the warmth of the nanny he hired for her. Nanny was the ghost of the mother she craved to know. She's smiling because she remembers – that spot in the living room, her and Nanny with the gentle curls in her hair, pretty in the summer light, dressing her up in the dusty frocks her dead mother left behind. She'd whisper to Nanny about what she'd do when she was grown.

'That's a long way away, Mary,' Nanny would say, nipping at her nose.

'When I'm older, I'll marry a man. But he won't be like Dad.' She remembers the dressing-up and playacting got serious then. 'Because all the men like Dad, they're so _extra_ordinary that they pack up and leave you. They are too _extra_ordinary for this world.'

'Oh, but Mary, my dear Mary, you mustn't talk like that,' she smiles, but there were worry lines around her eyes and mouth at the time. 'Aren't you going to be extraordinary too?'

Mary remembers the jolt she felt as a child at those words, like she was becoming herself at that moment. It wasn't like a caterpillar morphing into a butterfly – she found that comparison to droll and delicate. And though she may look fairy-like, tumbling golden hair, small frame, she wasn't delicate. She wasn't a doll. It was more like the moment when someone discovers a piece of land, somewhere uncharted and untouched. She'd found that part of herself hidden away and now she was here to reclaim it.

''Course I'm going to be _extra_ordinary,' she remembers saying. 'And the man I marry…'

'What about him, my dear Mary?' Nanny had said, tidying the mess they'd made.

'He won't go wrong.'

Now remembering it, it was an odd thing for a child to say, but Mary knows she's always been peculiar. She laughs to herself. She realises how hollow and bitter it sounds. The irony of _He won't go wrong _hits her.

'The problem with you, Mary,' her father barks, 'is that you had this idea – this naïve idea – I used to always hear you – going on about gentleman and who'd you marry. Bugger that, Mary – it's nothing. The ideas you have when you are young can never amount to the truth of when you are old. Damn it, there's a way to go about things _nobly_. There used to be. There must be still…'

'I'm sorry for you, father,' she says, looking at him. She doesn't say it coldly, but with earnest concern. 'I don't want to end up like you. I can feel it in my skin, in my bones, already, and I've got to get it out before it sucks me in too.'

'Before _what_ sucks you in?'

She stands, walks towards him, lays a hand on his wrinkled cheek. 'The bitterness,' she says softly, kissing him on the same cheek.

She leaves. Her father's said many monologues in the conversations shared between them, but the final word is hers, and she does not intend to come back to house where her youth lived and died.

* * *

><p>Seb is a tad bit hungover. He's not sure how long he's been drinking for, but he has a feeling that his body's leaving him, that he's both in the grasps of heaven and hell. He smiles fondly at the ground and asks Jim if it's hot enough for him down there. If there's a hell, then there's a surety that's where his boss is. In any case, he'd been joining him, but not any time soon. He has work to do.<p>

He remembers the jealousy he felt whenever Moriarty mentioned Sherlock's name. He supposes it's easy to be ensnared, to be mesmerised by someone like Sherlock, but he couldn't help but feel he was being replaced.

He's not ashamed to say he had fun at The Isis down at Mayfair. He'd met with men and women, the caricatures of the easy life he led before; and his smile, or the way he checked them out - they were too stupid or inebriated to see the glint of excitement and hate in his eyes. People_ were_ ordinary after all; they had no right to live out the lives he once lived. And to say the least, messing with Sherlock's head is always appetising, builds up a hunger in him to do it again.

Who knew the man had a heart? He shrivels his nose. Oddly pathetic, how such a great man can be brought down by something so… so ordinary. He understood lust, the urgent hunger of wanting to feel complete, to release oneself. But what he saw in Sherlock's eyes – the hopeless puppy-dog look John gave the detective after sucking off his girlfriend's face – that's _more_ than lust. Some sort of metaphysical, timeless bond crap that he hadn't bothered thinking about until now.

The shudder he gave Sherlock when he momentarily threatened John, the power he could feel with the simple mimicking of triggering a gun in someone's direction. It's pure sex. He doesn't understand why people can't stay on the ground and not float away with their feelings. He'd thought Sherlock smart enough to understand by now. But that's not his problem.

He remembers what Jim told him, that odd smile on this mouth, when they had first met, when he was younger then, robust, strong…

'_Oh. Oh, I like you. You're a hunter. Hunters are the best. They're bat-shit crazy, that's what they are. Always looking for the next meal. It's survival instinct, and you've got it all over you. And aren't you hungry… I can see it in your eyes. Nevermind. Daddy won't let you starve.'_

Jim, the insane bastard, but he loved him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock makes a funny face at his coffee. He sits opposite Lestrade in his office, who beams at him.<p>

'Missed our coffee breaks, then?'

'Unconditionally.'

'I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I missed your sarcasm.'

'Hmm. Did Donavan and Anderson miss it much?' he says icily.

'More pity on them than you, Sherlock. I know they're a measly bunch, but they haven't been able to face you with the same snarky comments as before.'

'Conscience biting them in the backside? Should be amusing to watch.'

'I hope this plan of yours works, Sherlock. I didn't say this before…it was hard. But I don't think I could cope again if you were gone. And as for John, well… you know.'

Sherlock's face softens momentarily. 'I _knew_ you believed in me, Lestrade. No need to get weepy.'

Lestrade chuckles. 'You're too much of a – what's the phrase the newspapers used?_ Boffin_. You're too much of a boffin not to have known, Sherlock.'

'Hardly the best adjective to describe me, what else did I expect from a newspaper?' He gives Lestrade one of those half-smiles.

'I never got the chance to thank you-'

Before it gets too emotional, Sherlock interjects, 'If I hadn't saved you from a bullet, who else would I have to undermine at Scotland Yard?' he smiles. They both know that's as far a compliment as Sherlock ever gives. 'Donovan? Anderson? Good God, they undermine themselves too easily. Would have got … boring, to say the least. Listen carefully, Lestrade, because I won't say it again, I had faith that you'd be fine. You're the most competent DI I know.'

Lestrade makes a mock gesture to his heart. 'I'm stunned, Sherlock. Did those three years change you?'

It's a rhetorical question, but Sherlock answers anyway: 'No, not change, _understand_.' He realises he says this more to himself than to Lestrade.

When he looks up, Lestrade is wearing a quizzical look. 'How's Mary?'

Sherlock is not sure how to respond, but he doesn't like where this is going. So he adopts a tone of indifference. 'I wouldn't know.'

'_He_ texted me, you know,' Lestrade says. 'A couple of weeks ago – he said he was going to text your brother. He couldn't find you.'

'That was a bothersome misunderstanding. He found me in the end.'

'I'm sure he did.'

Sherlock exhales. 'Thanks for the stale coffee. I've got work to do.'

'Oh, God, I _knew_ it.' Lestrade has his hands on his face, his back pressed into his chair, his neck titled backwards. 'Ever since you locked eyes on him. Why didn't I understand until – he's more than a case, no doubt you tried to solve him.'

'This is none of your business, Lestrade.'

'And you're just deflecting questions, because I know you too well now. No doubt you realised he was more than a case, he was work, _the _work, _your_ work. Bloody hell, Sherlock, he's with _Mary_…'

Sherlock stood up, his eyes alit with something dangerous. 'You may think you've deduced it all, but that's far from the reality. John is with Mary, and I am, as ever I was before, married to my work. Whatever you assume happened between us the day he found me again, rest assured it didn't.'

'"Not change, _understand,_" you said. I'm not stupid, Sherlock. What goes on between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman, a man and a man – it's all the same. I recognised it in your face.'

'And what exactly is that, Lestrade? _Inform_ me.'

'Love. For somebody else. Or did you forget the Christmas party at Baker Street three years ago, the one where you deduced my wife was having an affair? She wore that same look when I got home to her.'

'The similarities between your cheating wife and me are shocking. Do go on.' He bites out sarcasm like acid. It's what make him safe from vulnerability.

'And yet I always wondered about you two.'

'I'm not your wife, Lestrade.'

'No. You didn't get it off with a bloke twenty years your junior. You didn't do it just to spite me. Sherlock, you love him.' There's silence between them. Sherlock hates that he has to look out of the window and not at Lestrade's face.

'Well,' Lestrade continues, 'I deduced something right… You love him (Sherlock winces) and that's…much different. What are you going to do? He won't do anything, won't say anything, unless you tell him how you-'

'I'll be back when it's time to go ahead with the plan. You know about the empty house across the road from 221b in enough detail. If you've anymore questions, you know where to find me.'

Sherlock makes his way out.

'I was young when I met my wife, Sherlock,' he hears Lestrade shout, 'but you and John, you've gone through those years, those youthful years of not being sure. Don't make the same mistakes I did. Don't cock it up like I did.'

He leaves in the same manner as Mary leaves her father.

He strides along the streets of London towards Baker Street, walking off resentment and nakedness. He does not let anyone see through him, only in the exceptional moments between him and John, a look, a glance, can undress him.

He's somewhat thankful John is at Mary's. Just Mrs Hudson, it seems, as he opens the door to his flat, and the ghosts of voices from the sound of the stereo. He hears her sing, '_A crowd stood around you, the night when I found you, they wanted you in the old homing waltz_.' Mrs Hudson, Vera, and a chorus of men reverberates the rickety walls of 221B.

'Sherlock!' she says.

He gives her a half-smile, 'Mrs Hudson.'

He finds her in his kitchen, setting down the groceries. 'You weren't in, and I thought you hadn't had supper yet. Oh, and it was getting awfully late, so I just assumed you were sorting out your little cases and what not. But,' she says, breathy, 'you're here!'

'Yes, I suppose I am.'

'Where's John, then?'

'_I was young when I met my wife, Sherlock, but you and John, you've gone through those years, those youthful years of not being sure. Don't make the same mistakes I did. Don't cock it up like I did.'_

She looks at him expectedly. Mrs Hudson, a mother expecting her son to bring home his sweetheart. Those times were long since dead, decayed in the vaporous voices of Mrs Hudson's records.

'Vera Lynn,' she says, noticing him listening. 'The Homing Waltz – was my favourite when I was in my twenties.'

He indulges her a bit. 'Really, Mrs Hudson? Yes, I can imagine the young men queuing up to dance with you.'

'Oh, Sherlock,' she tuts, pats him on the shoulder. Anyone else he would have thrown out of the flat, but Mrs Hudson is always exempt from his usual reactions. 'Nothing like that whatsoever. Just one man.'

Sherlock raises his eyebrow. She sings absent-mindedly, packing the groceries away, '_Though you never knew me, you smiled and came to me, and I found you mine in the old homing waltz._'

He waits for her to tell him more. He knows what she's doing. 'His name was Jack Appleby, a farmer's son moved to the city. Ma and Pa weren't too keen.' She laughs with a kind of girlish glee that brightens her features. Sherlock looks at her – he could never imagine Mrs Hudson as anything but Mrs Hudson until now.

'Funny, because it was 1952 when we met and this song was playing at a local party – the war was over years ago, but those kind of war songs were still popular.'

'You were in a different kind of war without really knowing it.'

'The Cold War – didn't have a clue what that was then, and I doubt I do now. All that existed was Jack,' she smiles wearily.

_This sweet melody that brought you to me will linger forever in my memory._

'I think I could have loved him, but I couldn't have made a life with him.'

Sherlock doesn't ask why. He's thinking of the one person he knows he shouldn't.

'Ah!' Mrs Hudson exclaims, 'but that was years ago. I'm all wrinkly now. It's best I see Jack as he was when we first met – young with two blushing apples for cheeks. Heaven knows, he was just a boy then.'

He watches her eyes water. She feels a hand slide into hers, and she looks up with a sad smile at Sherlock. She holds on tightly to his hand and he embraces her, her head resting on his chest, waltzing her gently around the flat.

_I found what I prayed for in the arms I was made for, the night when we danced to the old homing waltz._


	8. Peter, Part 2

Hello, and sorry for the delay! I'm a bit unwell and I've been busy with assignments. This was a difficult one to write because a lot of important stuff happens in it, and I wanted to do the Watson family justice to! You may have noticed the rating's gone up… that's due to occasional swearing in this from John's family (mainly Peter) and some, ahem, sexual references. Very mild references, I may add, but just to be on the safe side… I don't usually have swear words in my stories, unless I think it vital to the dialogue or character and, in this case, when emotions run high, it is.

I also want to thank everyone for reviewing, messaging me, and advertising my story (I've noticed did this on tumblr – very kind of you!) – that's the sweetest thing ever, and for_ Khorazir_ for the beautiful fanart!

Finally, enjoy. I hope you like this one.

* * *

><p>{Chapter 8 – <strong>Peter<strong> (Part 2)} In which John visits his family.

_I know you think you're still a child, but I couldn't give a fuck,_

_You're twenty-one._

_Oh, Peter, I am not naïve, _

_I see the way you look at her,_

_You don't do that for me._

_It must be love, and we both know it's not with us._

**(Peter by Daughter)**

_Burned out flames should never reignite,_

_But I thought you might take me home._

_I think he knows I've hardly slept_

_Since the night he left._

_Keep the nightmares out, give me mouth to mouth,_

_I can't live without you,_

_Take me to your house._

**(Home by Daughter)**

_Have you told him yet?_ GL

Sherlock stares at the cold, robotic lettering of the text message. Letters, words – cold, he always preferred them that way, facts that we churn out of our mouths like engines. But now he finds the text from Lestrade scrawled across his phone disjointed. Five monosyllabic words, he told himself, not even uttered, but displayed by a machine, and yet he feels his heart, the vital organ, threatening to pound its way out of his ribcage.

He deletes the message with a spiteful, urgent press of his thumb into his phone. He's in the car with John, the night of London roofing over their heads.

John frowns, driving. He does a quick glance at Sherlock's irate face and the deserted phone flung to the backseat.

'Who was that? Mycroft?' he chuckles.

'Doesn't matter. Not important.'

'Right…OK.'

There's a moment of silence between them until John speaks again. 'Thanks again for coming with me. I haven't had the courage to visit my family as much since I thought you were dead… Mary couldn't come, I couldn't bare going alone.'

'It's … fine. I think I owe you a thousand things and more since what I put you through, John. Cherish these words – I won't be so at ease to admit them in public.'

They laugh a little. 'Listen,' John says, 'I never did get a chance to let you talk about that day…'

'What day?' Sherlock says, but he's already deduced where the conversation is going.

'You know what I'm talking about, Sherlock – the day I found you at the lake at Hampton Heath. The question I asked you – and then when-'

'It seems rather pointless to discuss it,' Sherlock breathes, feeling uncomfortable about the situation. John had found him, John had asked the right question, John, for God's sake, had kissed him, and then went back to Mary after spending the night without so much as a word about the events that past between them.

'Pointless?' John says, glancing at him.

'Indeed. I get irritated during the gaps in between cases, when my mind needs something to occupy it. It's harmless.'

'Harmless?' John's hands squeeze onto the driving wheel, shoulders tense. 'It's not harmless when you get so buzzed you need your friend to help you out of a lake in case you drown-'

'I wasn't going to drown-'

'-It's not harmless when you start having one on one conversations with the second most dangerous man in London after Moriarty, who wants to _kill_ you, it's not harmless to anyone when you decide to bloody fall off a building to your death-'

Sherlock looks away, regretting what he said.

'Not harmless, unless it's me. I thought you'd understand that by now.'

'So you kiss me? Was that meant to show me you cared? Spell it out for me, John – I can't understand human displays of affection. Was the kiss mere fondness between two friends or more?'

John stops the car, his eyes blurry.

'Sherlock-'

'You gave me my _first_ kiss.' John looks astonished. 'Quite frankly, this caring notion is too new to me – or has been buried far in the recesses of my mind since childhood. I collect detail, observe. It's what I do. And then you come along and do something as ridiculous as _kiss _me and suddenly my brain feels like it's flat-lining, trying to understand, label, grasp new things. Save your kisses for Mary.'

The words come out with more bitterness than Sherlock intends it too.

John's face softens. 'I never knew it was your first kiss… I just assumed – I don't know what I was thinking.'

'That's not a surprise.'

'Sherlock…'

'Have you told Mary?'

'No.'

'Well, there you go then. That's all the kiss was – a mistake. Intoxication, stress, relief, to see me unscathed. It's just chemicals, hormones, elements.'

'Right… that's all it was.' John looks ahead, furrowing. His chest is constricted; he can't open his mouth, perhaps because it is easier to accept this condensed history behind them. Something falls inside him – hope? He's hurting Mary, and he's hurting himself. Of course Sherlock couldn't, wouldn't, look at him in that way. He glances sideways at the man – too extraordinary to entangle himself forever with him, in every way imaginable. _He's stupid to think that Sherlock's friendship can ever be more than what it really is._

He drives on. Throughout the rest of the journey, a stifling silence lies between them.

When they arrive at the Watson's family home, a brown, two-story house, with the lights shimmering at every window, and the voices inside warm, hearty, full of laughter, shadows against the night whispering, cohering, sharing each other's lives over beer and tea, Sherlock speaks:

'John.'

'Hmm,' he says, knocking on the door.

'About earlier-'

'Sherlock, it's fine. I understand what you said completely, and I agree. Just a kiss.' He gives Sherlock a brisk, content smile, looks down at the ground, knocking his shoes together, and brightens when the door opens.

'Dad, it's good to see you!'

'John,' his dad smiles, 'Didn't think you'd come!'

They embrace. Sherlock studies Mr Watson – a man of average height and build with the same greying blonde hair as his son, big excitable eyes, and a worn look about his clothes (sewn-in patches), not because he can't afford new ones… No, he has sentimental reasons for wearing those – a present from his wife, most probably, who passed away more than ten years ago. He's got lines around his face, now folded with laughter, but more likely the cause of grief and tears.

Mr Watson looks towards Sherlock, something signals across his face – recognition.

'Good God, you must be him. Sherlock Holmes – it's a pleasure to meet you and that you're very much alive,' he laughs, embracing Sherlock, who responds awkwardly. 'It's like you've never had a hug in your life!'

'By my calculations,' Sherlock replies, 'it's probably been at least ten years. The last time it was a family occasion and, unfortunately, I did not have time to escape the perilous attack of an embrace from a member of my family.'

'Who was it?'

'My mother.'

Mr Watson roars with laughter. 'I can see why you hang around with him,' he says, patting his son on the back, and John rolls his eyes in an exasperated, but warm, manner towards his father.

'Come in, come in – don't mean to keep you standing outside… Where's Mary, then?'

John looks back at Sherlock, who's eyes survey the house. 'She's busy with work, but she sends her love.'

Mr Watson smiles, but there's something that falters in his expression. 'Haven't seen her a while.'

'Well, like I said – busy.'

They walk towards the dining area, through the wine-coloured walls, the worn, spontaneous snapshots of John and his family's lives framed upon them – birth, school, graduation, the Army – John before Sherlock arrived.

On the entrance to the dining room, they bump into a dark blonde-headed woman, clothed in a loose white shirt, half-buttoned up, and shorts, a kind of reckless, thrown- together beauty, wineglass in her hand, slightly eschewed.

'Oh, blooming heck,' says an exasperated Mr Watson, 'watch where you're going, love. How many glasses have you poured – John, keep the rest of the alcohol away from her.'

'You showed,' she smiles to John.

'I could say the same for you.'

'It's not what it looks like,' she says, glancing down at her glance, 'Dad's just … paranoid.'

'He has good reason,' John says stiffly, but he relaxes his body, smiles a little, embraces her with a heavy sigh. 'I'm just glad you're conscious for once.'

'Big brother complimenting me – I should be oh so lucky. Oh, look here – the bloke you blog about!' she grins, looking Sherlock up and down. 'Can see why _you_ like him.'

'Taking things out of context as usual,' John sighs, heading into the dining room.

'I'm-'

'Harriet Watson. Obvious.'

'And yet you called me Harriet and not Harry, which I despise. Deduced me?'

'Didn't have to with the titled glass in your hand and the silver necklace around your neck. Clara's, I suspect, you're on and off girlfriend – though no one but you in this household knows it.'

'I only wear it because-'

'You really want to fill in an excuse in my presence?' he smirks. 'The reason is always sentimental, confessional – to even attempt to say it's just because you like the look of the necklace is, even for someone who's nearly had a bottle of wine, a level of stupidity that's unrivalled.'

'Ha!' she says, her lips pressed gently to the glass. 'Insults – good one. I've had worse said about me – I like to think of myself as a stress ball for people who need to squeeze me till they can release all their anger out on me. Tell me, then, _Mr Holmes_,' she says in a mockingly, 'who was it that pissed you off? I can't imagine you're the kind of bloke to even so much as give a half-assed rat about someone as ordinary as me, so why take the trouble to do so? Is it my brother? No wait – I've got this one. _"Obviously"_.'

Sherlock is about to brush her aside, when she holds him back. 'It takes someone who's been wrecked to know another. Addictions come in all shapes. But you're clever – great, even. You already know that – that you can get drunk on more than just wine,' she says, looking over at her brother who's sat at the table.

'Sherlock,' he hears John's voice call, and he enters the room – Harry's figure receding into another part of the house. He's impressed. John's family, at the moment, are almost as good at irritating him as his own. 'This is Peter – I've wanted you to meet him for sometime. He's my cousin.'

Peter sits next to John, a dark-haired, twenty-one year old, with features still very much like an adolescent boy. He's got _The Poetry of John Keats_ across his lap, a dishevelled cigarette in his ear, and a gawky, crooked smile. 'Hiya,' he nods at Sherlock.

'Smoking's bad for you,' Sherlock says, sitting down opposite. Mr Watson grunts in agreement at the head of the table, as if to say _'I always tell him, but he never listens'_.

'Sounds like someone's miffed they can't have a cig,' he laughs. 'I prefer pipes, to be honest.'

'You and your obsessions,' John says – he's smiling warmly, and there's a brotherly comradeship between them.

Sherlock gives a quick half-smile at Peter. He doesn't completely find him irritating.

'It's good to see this,' Mr Watson beams. 'I feel like I haven't seen you smile in ages,' he says to John. 'Sherlock, you must do wonders.'

Sherlock and John look at each other, but never quite hold their gaze. John answers with a mere, 'Hmm.'

After dinner, during which Harry and her sporadic restlessness rejoins them, they make their way to the living room. Peter takes John by the arm silently, leading him out into the garden.

'Don't want to see _Eastenders_, then?' John laughs. 'Thought it was the highlight of your nights?'

'Funny,' he says, sitting down on the grass, lighting a cigarette. John thinks he's going to regret doing this, but he takes his jacket off and rests his head upon it on the grass, his eyes adjusting to the dark sky above their heads. 'So. He's beautiful, isn't he?'

'What?'

'Sherlock, your friend.'

'I wouldn't even know how to respond to that. But you – I've never heard you call a man _beautiful_ before. Something to tell me?' The question's a lazy one, one that comes thick into the chilly night. He's had a little too much to drink, just the right amount to not feel threatened by the turn of conversation.

'No. It's just that I'm not blind. I _can _see beauty.'

'You've been reading too much Keats.'

'_You_ don't read enough of it,' he smiles, turning over on his stomach to face John, who scoffs. 'John.'

'Hmm?'

'I'm not an idiot. Where's Mary?'

'She's busy – why does everyone think I'm not telling the truth?'

'Do you love her?'

'Yes.'

'In every capacity possible?'

'I – Peter, you're too damn nosy. I love you, but this doesn't concern you.'

'Yes, it does. You don't say her name the way you say his. It's obvious, even Harry notices, and you two are the last ones to know. You're both too stupid to say anything.'

The last sentence comes out angrily, with a quick huff of smoke from Peter's mouth into the night.

John is silent.

'I thought I was the one you could always talk to,' Peter says. 'I knows it's been years – and I'm not eighteen anymore. But I thought that was our deal – to be honest, to tell each other what's going on in our lives.'

John looks at him, exhales. 'Right, what's going on in your life, Peter?'

'I'm in love.'

'Oh bullocks, here we go.'

'I know it's for real this time – you're not taking me seriously! Take me seriously!'

'Alright, alright!' he says, hands in the air in protest. 'What makes you think you're in love?'

'She fits me, John. I know it sounds cliché, maybe it is, but she fits. I've always found it dreadful when someone says they're waiting for their other half – as if you're not complete until that one person shows up and makes you whole. I've felt that I've just gone round being half of myself – not the nicest feeling.'

'No,' John mumbles.

'I think it's a bit shit, really – you have to know yourself first to feel complete, not wait half a century for someone. So I never really waited. But then I met her and we…fitted. I wasn't expecting it.'

'How long's it been?'

'A week.'

'Right…'

'We've already figured out plans to move in together.'

'I'm sorry – I don't think I quite heard you right.'

'We're going to move in together,' Peter says calmly, taking a drag from his cigarette. 'You old man! Your hearing's not what it used to be, is it?'

'Peter, this is absurd.'

'Says the man who killed for a consulting detective he had just met and who could have been an absolute nutcase.'

'I knew he wasn't – that's different.'

'I see no difference at all.'

'Peter, you're a child.'

'I'm twenty-one.'

'When you younger, seven, ten, _sixteen_, perhaps, it was cute. But it's not anymore. You need to put away those stories in your head.'

'I'll never.'

'They don't _happen_! People find others, break hearts, cheat behind backs, fall out of love, fall into it, realise they've been in love without realising,' he says. He wants to bit back the last bit, but Peter is already looking at him suspiciously. 'It's messy. It's not like the poems you read.'

'I'd say falling for a serpent-girl is pretty messy – not one of the prettiest poem Keat's came up with.'

'Stop being a smart-ass. You're not in bloody Neverland – those games I used to indulge you boys in when you were young in this very garden. It's over, gone. There's no Wendy, no lost boys – Wendy's gone and married a prim and proper accountant, the lost boys have found themselves real homes!'

Peter looks thoroughly at John, his nostrils flaring. Time to get things out in the open, under the dimming stars, the garden where their feet tread – he can remember it now – looks hard for the ghosts of their former selves, growing up through weeds and daffodils.

'I see the way you look at each other. Dad probably hasn't noticed, but I'm not stupid, John! Can't you just let me _want _to have that with someone? Can't you see I'm angry with you?'

'With me? You're angry with me?'

'Yes!' he yells to the empty heavens above him, 'bloody yes! You've got what we all dash out brains out for, and yet you're in denial. You know what I am, I'm fucking disappointed.'

John's incredulous.

'I've always looked up to you. And I'm hoping I have what you and Sherlock have one day. But not what you think you and Mary have. You don't want to hear it, poor Mary probably already knows it, but it pales in comparison. And the fact that you're holding on doesn't show courage, doesn't show a soldier, it shows someone who's bloody afraid. I want _my_ John back, the old, laughing, brave John. Don't go taking the piss out of me when you know you're angrier with yourself.'

John sighs, stands up, looks down upon a lying Peter and says, 'Good luck with the love of your life.' He leaves the garden.

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John's father are in the living room, the latter a bit too merry with wine down his throat to notice his son and Peter's departure.<p>

'You know people always think love's a thing that you should be noble about,' he says to Sherlock, who's restless and staring resentfully at the wall ahead of him. 'People don't like to make it messy, too think it's corruptible. I'm sure you know this, you study criminal motivation, I bet – a lot do it, commit crimes, for love, whatever they think 'love' is. There's nothing noble in wanting to love someone so much that it makes you destructive. See, people don't like it when I tell 'em that.'

'Proven side-effect of oxytocin stimulated by arousal and affection.'

'Right… right, you're one of those types who puts love down to chemicals, then?' Sherlock opens his mouth, hesitates, looks back at the wall.

'Not that it would matter with our family, I suppose,' Mr Watson continues. 'No relationship outside the family's survived… Harry's botched it up with Clara, my Suzanne's been gone these past ten years… and John – John's never been serious with anyone.'

Sherlock blinks. 'He's serious with Mary.'

John's father scoffs, swaying. 'She's a wonderful woman – she's almost perfection, but there's a look between them that they lack.' Mr. Watson starts giggling. 'Tell you what, I was joking to Harry earlier saying how you and my son had more of a look between the two of you than him and his girlfriend!'

Sherlock presses his eyes shut, and by the time they open again, Mr Watson is looking very gravely at him. 'The noble moments,' he says, looking intently at Sherlock, 'come in quiet minutes, loving each other after the rush of things. That's what it was like for me and Suzanna before she passed.' He half-smiles, the laughter lines around his face becoming wrinkles once more. He looks sad. 'All my children – always wanting the rush of it, then they get disappointed when a relationship can't withstand the pressure of expectation.'

'I'm at lost to why you are telling me this, Mr Watson. I've no regard for it, surely you know that.'

'All I know is that at the moment you left my son's life, he was but half a man. Now you're back, he's getting life back into his lungs.'

'Mary-'

'You're awfully _stupid _for a clever person. Of course, Mary's important – he couldn't have got rid of the limp that came back without her, would have probably gone a little mad without her there to help him. Two pieces of a puzzle – Mary, John – trying to fit together.' He leans forward towards Sherlock. 'Mr Holmes, fix the puzzle… _you're _the real piece that fits with him. And don't deny it, don't say I wouldn't know, he's my son, my _flesh_ – all I want is for him to be happy again.'

'I think I ought to go to bed. I'm tired.'

'Right…' he says, pausing. 'Harry'll show you – she's in the hallway.'

* * *

><p>Sherlock collapses onto his bed. The guest room is small, cosy, lit dimly: perfect conditions for the private unwinding of his mind. He loosens his shirt, waiting for sleep to lull him. But he has lied and, worse, John's father knows. He isn't tired. He rarely is, and it's unlikely he will sleep tonight with wine on his lips and John on his brain.<p>

He hears a knock. Before he can answer, John opens the door, stands before him, and shuts it with a finality that makes Sherlock's head and heart throb.

Sherlock gets up from off the bed. For a moment, they simply stare at each other.

'I'm tired,' Sherlock says.

'No, you're not, you git. You're not going anywhere. It's taken me a long time to knock on your door, I've done it, and I'm carrying through with what I intended.' He paces the room, hand on the back of his neck. 'The kiss between us.'

Sherlock realises his palms are sweaty; he hates the fact that his body is betraying him.

'The kiss between us,' John goes on, '_wasn't _a mistake. Maybe – maybe that's how you felt about it. Fine. But I'm pissed off to think that not only did I realise I wasn't even half myself when you were gone, but that – once you came back – I realised that you – you completed me. God help me, but you complete me. When you turned up at our old flat – I couldn't help but want to kiss you. Took me a couple of days to realise that perhaps that's not what flatmates want to do with each other, make tea, solve crimes, _kiss_. And I'm puzzled – this is what gets me the most – to know why everyone thinks we're meant to be together – _you _– you, the man who keeps bloody heads in the fridge, hangs dummies from the ceiling, drugs my tea!'

'John-'

'I need to be awarded for what I have to put up with you – and to top it all off you left me. You _left_ me. You made me look at your bloody body on the floor! I hadn't a single nightmare since I met you, and when I thought you were dead, they came flooding back.'

John holds back tears, bowing his head down. There is the soldier about him, the constricted shoulders, the vertical back, the eyes that follow just above Sherlock's head. Sherlock admires him, always has, wants to tell him –

'I watched you when you went to my grave,' he says, his voice somewhat shaky. 'I couldn't be there all the time, but I – I saw you occasionally.' Sherlock laughs bitterly. 'Moriarty knew I was prepared to burn, but that's not what made him clever. He knew where and what my heart was, even though I thought all this time I didn't have one.'

John steps closer towards him, and Sherlock can smell the wine on his breath, intoxicating him. he's catalogued this before – the almost-kiss when they first met after three years, the first kiss at Hampton Heath – yes, this is one of those dangerous moments between them in which their bodies gravitate towards each other.

'But John, you've got Mary-'

'She can't keep the nightmares out, though she's tried.'

'-She can give you what I wouldn't know to give, John.'

'And if there's a chance that perhaps what I'm saying to you is reciprocal-'

But the excuses even sound futile on Sherlock's lips. John closes in on them, plucks kisses from them slowly like they're something fragile and tender. Sherlock's mind is drowning, drunk on the feel of John – he tries to mechanize a response, to put his hand there or here, to kiss like this or that – but he's utterly void of experience. All he can do is try his very best to stand without buckling from such sensations. He had searched for John on the mountains of Lhasa, on the borders of France, in the alleyways beyond the cool rivers of the Nile in Khartoum.

And now his brain, his arms, his lips, are full of John.

There's an uncomfortable ache between his legs, John's hands under his shirt, rapid breathing.

The door opens. John stops. Sherlock feels like he's resurface a lake.

'Harry…' John mutters.

Harry stands there at the door, a look fixed between shock and smugness. 'Dad told me to show you where the bathroom was … but I can see that John will most likely show you in the morning.'

John looks briefly at Sherlock and, awkwardly, leaves the room. Harry shuts the door, and Sherlock finds himself collapsed in the same position on his bed before John entered his room, John, who reduces his body to blood, flesh, and tissue, to a body that wants only another to function.

* * *

><p><strong>References:<strong> For non-UK readers, _Eastenders_ is soap/drama on telly (it's very melodramatic, people swap babies, have affairs, drink at the local pub etc).

John Keats, though I assume most of you know, is a Romantic poet (one of favs) who wrote about the beauty of nature and love. I thought if Peter were to read anything, it would be Keats.

'_I'd say falling for a serpent-girl is pretty messy – not one of the prettiest poem Keat's came up with.'_

Peter, here, is referencing the John Keats poem, _Lamia_, about a mythical serpent-woman who is seductive and shape shifts. You know, the usual.

As well as being inspired by the Daughter song 'Peter', the title and character's name is also a reference to _Peter Pan_ (Neverland is mentioned in this chapter, as well as Wendy and the lost boys), the epitome of naivety, youth, and innocence. In some ways, John's cousin embodies this.

Um, the 'uncomfortable ache' that Sherlock experiences, I'm sure I don't really need to tell you what that was… Poor Sherlock.


	9. Conversations With Myself

{Chapter 9 – **Conversations With Myself**} In which Sherlock has two visitors at 221B, and Mary receives her final one.

_I lived a lot of different lives  
>Been different people many times<br>I live my life in bitterness  
>And fill my heart with emptiness<em>

_And now I see, see for the first time_  
><em>There is no crime in being kind<em>  
><em>Not everyone is out to screw you over<em>  
><em>Maybe and just maybe they just want to get to know you<em>

_Now the time is here_  
><em>Baby, you don't have to live your life in fear<em>  
><em>And the sky is clear<em>  
><em>It's clear of fear<em>

_I don't want to live in fear and loathing_  
><em>I want to feel like I am floating<em>  
><em>Instead of constantly exploding<em>  
><em>In fear and loathing<em>

_**(Fear and Loathing by Marina and The Diamonds)**_

_But, I still wonder  
>Why you left with her<br>and left me behind_

_Take your hands off him_  
><em>Cause he's the only one that I have ever loved<em>  
><em>Please don't find her skin<em>  
><em>When you turn the lights out<em>

_I can't erase it_  
><em>From my mind<em>  
><em>I just replay it, love<em>  
><em>I think of it all of the time<em>

_But I don't want to imagine  
>Words you spoke to her that night<br>Make your bodies look like porcelain  
>You both knew I'd be bleeding inside<br>_

_**(Love by Daughter)**_

* * *

><p>'<em>I'm disappointed in you,' Moriarty says. 'I confess you don't live up to my expectations.'<em>

Sherlock turns, erratic in his sleep.

'_I showed you I could burn the heart out of you, ruin you. But look what you've done, you and John… well played, well played.' _

'John-'

'_Is there any point in calling for him? Doubtful that he can hear you.'_

'No – he's here.'

_That dreaded face, creased with laughter lines, eyes that turn from light, scintillating to dark, unmoving – Jim Moriarty. Very much existing and alive in his dreams this morning in July. _

'_What makes you think I can't burn your heart out again?'_

'_It would a bit difficult for you to do so six feet under,' Sherlock says._

His hands clench under the sheets of his bed.

'_I think I'm doing it now. Honestly, Sherlock, keep up.'_

'_Why are you still here? I observed, I made no mistake, you put a bullet through your mouth just to spite me.'_

'_I told you, Sherlock. Staying alive – boring – it's just the same. I thought you'd appreciate it? The game. You were always up for it. He changed you.'_

'_Don't even so much as utter his name again. You'll contaminate it.'_

'_Oooh, steady now.' Moriarty places his hands up in the air, defensively. 'Aren't we possessive?' The small smile from his face slips, and something more sinister replaces it. 'Look what they've done to you. Three bullets – Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, John – looks like you saved them and killed whatever it was that made me mildly fascinated with you.'_

'_Mildly being the operative word,' Sherlock bites back._

'_Pulled down by ordinary affairs, look at you. It's hard to watch.'_

'_John is anything but ordinary.'_

_Moriarty wags his finger towards Sherlock. 'You see, that's your problem. That there is what got you killed. Most people talk to you and it's like having a conversation with paint. I so much as whisper 'John', and I've cracked your shell… I knew it, I 'deduced' it – hope you like what I did there – when I was Jim from IT. I saw your heart, John, standing all soldierly and protective (a bit sickening, really. Do you wind him up like a doll? Does he perform tricks for you? I'd love a John on my shelf.) I saw he was your heart, and that I had to burn him if I wanted to destroy you.'_

'_How would you know what to burn when there's a gaping vacuum of a hole where your heart should be?'_

'_Ouch. That hurts,' he says, mockingly touching his heart. 'Yeah,' he starts to laugh, 'interesting, coming from the man who didn't know where to look on a naked woman. Untouched. Would I have had the same result had I pushed a naked John in front of you? Should have tried that…would have been amusing…You certainly would've known where to look.'_

'_Get out.'_

'_Nah. I'd rather stay,' he says simply. 'I'm not real, Sherlock. You can expel me from your mind whenever you like, it's just that you're choosing not to. You've not even told him, John, and you're scared he's going to leave, he's going to realise that he made-'_

'_Stop-'_

'_-The wrong-'_

'_-it.'_

'_-decision.' Moriarty pauses, lifts his head up. 'How could he begin to comprehend those parts of you, those parts of yourself you keep hidden, that you didn't even know you had until now? Hmm? Come on, answer me! How could he want to touch the Virgin? Oooh, I've struck a nerve there, haven't I? No, come on – seriously now, I'm curious, I've feeling very Carl Jung today – how many conversations with yourself are you going to have until you realise that John will always deserve better than you?'_

His limbs are numb, his eyes sleepy, his hair tumbling, skin damp – sweat on the white of his pillow. Sherlock's body comes back to life. He puts together his self, expels the stains of sleep, dream-Moriarty, and whatever irrational contents activated in one part of his brain. The real world: London outside his window, the electric current of life in people going about their daily business – the lady in her 60s who's having an affair with her student, the police officer down the road who's claiming benefits, the local newspaper boy with a hidden history of clinical depression. These people, like pawns and bishops and queens on a chess board are real, and he can observe them, and pinch himself awake, to no longer descend into dreamlife, in which his mind and body fail to correspond with each other harmoniously.

And he has to put himself together, to keep the not-so-secure parts of himself under lock and key. John is in the flat at 221B, and it's the morning after the thunderous visit to the Watsons, in which John kissed him and sent new wavelengths through his brain.

On their way back home, they had not said a word about the event. Nothing passed between them but a simple _'Pass the sugar, please'_ or _'I think I'll call it a night, I'm exhausted'_. Pure domesticity at its utmost normalcy, as if they decided in an unspoken conversation to delete selected moments of their history, moments that need to be revised, discussed, that were too delicate to simple open up about during tea or while watching TV or dissecting something from a lab.

The truth is that John's taciturn nature is not so taciturn on the inside. This morning he is taking it out on his phone and his sister.

_Don't think I'm talking to you, Harry. I'm not. I'm angry._

_JW_

_Alright, then. Understandable._

_HW_

There's a pause before his phone buzzes.

_Having a good conversation with yourself, then?_

_HW_

_Shut up._

_JW _

He's in the living room, the morning light dazzling the very much ordinary surfaces of the table, the chairs, the mirror above the mantelpiece. John closes his eyes. He understands now a fraction of the curse that occupies Sherlock's observant brain: he can't for the life of him get the feel of Sherlock's lips out of his head. It has stained his mind, his lips, his skin.

He looks down at his phone. He can't text Peter, though they had reached an understanding before he left. Peter, who is young and unwrinkled and immortal and in love. Peter, who was angry because he has not understood the quiet difficulties of falling for someone. He will, John thinks, but he wants to spare him months, years, wants to spare him the ache of aging, of growing up, on his youthful bones. Why is it so hard for him to say what he wants to say?

God help him…

_Help me, Harry._

_JW _

_Thinking about him, aren't you?_

_HW_

_Is it so obvious?_

_JW_

_I know it seems as if you and I have different DNA, but I'm not without my experiences._

_HW_

_Oh right. Clara… Sorry. How did you know – when you and her, you know…_

_JW_

_I think it would be difficult for me to use Clara and I as an analogy. If we worked together as you and Sherlock do, it would be a different story. Uncomplicate things, my dear brother._

_HW_

_I can't. It's not so simple to just – Harry, I can't understand it. I'm not gay. I've no inkling for any man I've ever met, other than the desire to either punch one or share a few pints with._

_JW_

_What about The Woman you blogged about all those years ago?_

_HW _

_What about her?_

_JW_

_I remember you complaining about how she kept calling you and Sherlock a 'couple'._

_HW_

_Yes, because we aren't – weren't – _

_JW_

_Screw that – I agree with her. Just because it was a time before you realised you had feelings for him, doesn't mean it isn't true. _

_HW_

_I don't buy it._

_JW_

_You can be in love with someone without a romantic or sexual inclination. There's little wonder why your girlfriends of the long distant past got jealous. Sherlock is indeed a lucky man. How can you commit to them when you're in love with him? Face it, you've gone past gender and sex. You've got to start shuffling what you find attractive, who you can see yourself with, and place it under a file named Sherlock._

_HW_

_Things won't be the same…_

_JW_

_They never were when you first met him._

_HW_

_Harry?_

_JW_

_What?_

_HW_

_You're not an absolute git after all._

_JW_

_Always good to know._

_HW_

* * *

><p>'Just going to pop out to the grocers,' he hears John say behind him. 'Sherlock?'<p>

'Mmm?'

John stands by the door, glancing at Sherlock's black silhouette lit by the sunlight, his long limbs sprawled out on the sofa, his mind racing.

'Do you want anything?' John says.

'No.'

'OK, right… Better be off.'

The tenderness in John's voice makes him look at him. 'But… Thank you for asking. Is this the right protocol ordinary people use?'

'Not so much ordinary people – they say _polite_ people use it often,' John smiles, a large, goofy grin that Sherlock never cares for on other people, but on John it radiates. It's not a false smile, it's genuine – how rare a thing, to make John smile.

Sherlock finds his face growing warmer, a half-smile breaking out across his mouth.

'_The noble moments,_' Mr Watson had said to Sherlock, _'come in quiet minutes, loving each other after the rush of things.'_

'Well,' John breathes heavily, 'I better be off. I won't be back till a little late. Thought I might take a walk.'

'Alright.'

'Alright,' he says, returning Sherlock's gaze.

He shuts the door. John leans against it, sighing. He knows Sherlock will deduce - has done so already – that he's going off to think about last night, to go about the grisly business of thinking about the consequences and to not merely get himself enraptured – which is delightfully depraving, easy – in the kisses shared between him and Sherlock.

Sherlock exhales, tilts his head back on the sofa. With lazy, majestic movements, he strides towards his violin, picking up the bow, and grazes it gently. A few disjointed notes creak out of the instrument in his hand.

'You, my dear old friend, have never let me down. Help me to think…'

He finds himself holding the instrument like a loved one, if ever he had such a thing – he would not admit it – sometimes neglected for shinier things, cases, puzzles, experiments – sometimes overused for days and _nights_.

He traps the violin gently under his chin, supports its small weight with the slender length of his shoulder, fingers with his left hand the strings rhythmically, arches his right elbow, his right hand tentative with the bow, then assured, sweeping it along the violin with gentle movements, the way someone's skin touches another.

_Untouched._

He touched this instrument many times before, he knows it well, understands it. His eyes close tightly, drowning out the flat and London below him with slow, lingering notes, piercing the walls around him.

_How could he want to touch the Virgin?_

_Legato._ His hands steady, slurring the notes together. _Portato._ Practiced hands, untouched themselves, stringing with care and patience and everything Sherlock deposes of once he places his scarf and coat on and opens himself back out onto the streets of the city. _Affettuoso. _He lulls the instrument into achingly tender notes, clenches the bow with more passion than intended, refuses to open his eyes which he is sure will water. He is willing everything inside of him into this solid, inanimate instrument, that only comes to life through its player.

Sally Donovan is not a person who relishes 221B. The last time she graced its walls, she was here to prove a point, but now the man she thought psychotic, false, mad, was very much alive. Not merely because he had proven his suicide fake, but because of what she is witnessing at this very moment.

It almost feels like he is bare, naked. She keeps still, unsure of what to do. It would be better if he wasn't thumbing the instrument as if it were real, as if it were alive – she would rather they insulted each other. It was safer, it made more sense.

How could such a man be capable of such – what was she hearing? She thinks it sounds like pain and loneliness.

The man is not normal – she's always been right about that. He doesn't speak the way normal people speak, fails to communicate with normality, yet what was he doing now, playing this instrument? She thinks she can almost – possible for the first time – hear him speak a comprehensive language, a conversation he wills from out of silence and into melody.

He stops suddenly, turns around, face agonised with shock, then fierce with anger and repulsion.

'What are you doing here?'

'Lestrade-'

'How the hell did you get in?' His eyes are watery, Sally notices. She's not sure if this can be possible. That man is ice. He's not meant to feel when he gets his buzz off murder cases.

'Mrs Hudson let me in. She said you were…busy.'

Sherlock swallows. It takes him a couple of moments to place the violin, now neglected, behind the desk, straighten up his clothes, to wear a look of defiance he's perfected especially for the likes of Donovan.

'If you've got a message from Lestrade, which no doubt you have, tell him he deliver it himself in person.'

'He's busy.'

Sherlock frowns at her. No snarky comments, no rolling of the eyes, no pursed lips or folded arms.

'What's the message, then?'

Sally stares at the violin partly obscured by the desk and back at Sherlock's furrowing face.

'He said that Moran's movements are becoming erratic. The government-'

'Basically, Mycroft -'

'-has been watching him. You do know he's intent on killing you?'

'No, I am perfectly unaware.'

'Don't be an _arse_! Lestrade pulled a file up on him the other day-'

'Which one of Mycroft's henchman delivered to him, obviously.'

'He's never missed a shot. He's not nearly as insane as Moriarty – he's not a … psychopath. But he's a professional, to the point of obsession, in what he does. His talent is as a sniper, he knows 61 ways to shoot someone without killing them, could torture them for hours, knows every muscle, bone, flesh on the human body. One soldier who served with him during his military career reported his infatuated drawings of bodies, some wounded, mutilated, torn apart, all over his room. It turned out they were the bodies of all the men he killed in action. Moriarty was so interested in him, he covered his damaging record and got him out of the army without so much as an open scandal… we still don't know what he was expelled for in the army.'

'I'm not surprised by that,' he says under his breath.

'What are you going to do about it then, genius? What about John?'

'61 ways of shooting without killing. Too high a number. He once claimed he went after a tiger in the Amazon jungle. He boasts for the lack of what he most assuredly has _not_ got.'

'Don't pretend to be a machine.'

Sherlock breaks from his thoughts. 'Excuse me?'

'I just saw you play the violin like you were caressing a lover. Soap won't be able to wash such a sight from my eyes, but don't act like you don't care about John. I said "What about John?" and you pretended to ignore me.'

'Donovan, I don't _pretend_ to ignore you. And I would most heartily advise against trying to deduce me. You've hardly the mental capacity to observe the obvious.' Donovan is about to open her mouth. 'Am I wrong? Of course not. Who was the Sir Lancelot of Moriarty's bedtime story, hmm? Who organised to meet with the police board, to persuade Lestrade that I – as I was with every case none of you had the wits to solve – was the killer? Couldn't have been Anderson – my God, no, he's your lackey, we all know that. He would have agreed with you know doubt, but he's too meek to go about things. It was you. I piss you off because I undermine the very notion of the Scotland Yard with my skills of deduction. What a joy it was to you to find them illusionary, made up.' He faces Sally. 'You want to be the Brutus to my Caesar? Go ahead. But don't act as if we care enough to know each other beyond such labels. And no, Anderson will not leave his wife for _you_.'

Sally stares back at him. 'I hope you've told him,' she says. It is not a tone of sympathy, jest, or even hatred. It is almost void of anything akin to their sour relationship. 'Whatever _this_ is,' she says, looking around the flat filled with a quarter of John's belongings, and Sherlock's slumped all over the place, glancing pointedly at the violin, 'you need to tell _him_.'

She looks at him simply, leaves. He hears the door shut, purses his lips, and heads towards his violin.

* * *

><p>'Mrs Hudson tells me I'm the second person to visit you today,' Sherlock hears a voice chime behind him. It's Mary, with her light footsteps, almost as if she is walking bare-footed. She sits down opposite him, glancing down at the tray of tea and biscuits on the table. She folds her dress over her knees, her hair slightly less kept that usual.<p>

'John isn't here,' Sherlock says, sitting in the opposite chair, violin clutched protectively in hand, thumbing its strings. 'But you already know that. You've not come to talk to him, not yet.'

'Oh dear,' she says, lightly. 'John told me the last time someone had tea with you, it was an enemy. I'm not an enemy, am I?'

They stare at each other. Sherlock considers how strange a moment this would be for anyone else but Mary and Sherlock, how socially unsettling this would appear.

'No,' Sherlock says. 'Look, there are biscuits.'

She smiles at him, but he keeps his nonchalant expression. A small, breathy laugh escapes her mouth quietly.

'Tell me, Sherlock,' she looks at him, not so much as a smile is on her face, but there is nothing sinister or bitter about her expression. Sherlock finds it easier if she were to hate him: most people do, 'why you don't seem to find me dull or irritating.'

'You're not as stupid as other people. And … John cares about you.'

He tries to say this as dispassionately as possible, but Mary is giving him the same look she gave the last time they met.

'He cares about _you_,' she says simply, and Sherlock sips, drowns himself in tea. She mirrors his actions with small, precise movements. 'How many crimes have you committed? How many little ones between you and John?' Her voice is a little shaky, and she laughs a little sadly. 'You'd be a fool not to kiss him already.'

Sherlock stares at her, unsure how to react.

She smiles widely. 'I don't think I need your skills of deduction, Sherlock. I can read John in your face, and yours in his.'

'Why don't you…' Sherlock struggles to find his voice. A rarity. 'Why don't you hate me? I don't quite understand – I need to fill this _gap_ (he stresses the word with particular hatred) in my knowledge.'

'Why would I?' she says, sipping her tea.

'You think I'm taking John away from you.'

'You're right, you _don't_ understand. You never took him away. He was yours the moment he found you.'

Sherlock purses his lips, as if to speak. So many questions … he's torn between self-loathing (why has he not had these gaps of knowledge filled?) and confusion (why is Mary not calling him a freak?)

'I need to know that I've lost,' Mary continues, 'to a worthier person. For John.'

'What is your definition of 'worthy', Mary? I get him kidnapped on a regular basis, shot at, threatened, I fake my death and cause him an innumerable amount of psychological damage. I underestimated you. You certainly don't define things by societal expectation.'

'I've lived with him for a couple of months, and yet you've managed to make a home with him out of the battlefield of London.'

'I cannot provide a home for anyone, least of all John.'

'While you are overtly assured of your intelligence, you doubt yourself as a human being. Why?' Mary cocks her head to the side.

'I don't think you're qualified to psychoanalyse me. You shall find yourself severely disappointed in your attempts to.'

'Defensive. That's not helping your case. If anything, it fuels my question further.'

Sherlock pulls at a string on his violin with decisive _pluck_. 'I have been repeatedly told I am not a human being.'

'And after time, you believed it. I see a man who's trying to desperately grasp knowledge he doesn't understand and, in the past, didn't want to. I don't think I see a sociopath.

'It _disturbs_ you, doesn't it, to feel attracted to someone, to want to be with someone?'

Sherlock lets the violin slide down into his seat and interlaces his hands together. 'Don't mirror your own psychological baggage onto me. I don't have any. That would be a great deal of weight upon my brain, and it would only slow me down.'

'You can't delete things like that from your mind… You don't think of yourself as much more than a brain, do you?'

'I picked you as a fighter, Mary. Why aren't you fighting me?'

'There's nothing to be won here,' she smiles wearily. 'Despite the circumstances, I think I shall miss your presence.'

'Have you told John where you're going?'

'How did you – oh, of course…' she says, standing up.

'Bags under your eyes, pen ink on your hands – not from marking schoolwork but from writing out formal papers – there's a stain on your dress. Reused from yesterday. You've been up all night, and you haven't had time to lay out new clothes. You've been packing.'

'Impressive,' she smiles, 'as I have always thought.' She walks towards the door. 'I've been ever so lucky to encounter a John in my life … if he sees you as more than a brain, then it cannot be questioned. A man like John doesn't lie. And though,' Sherlock imagines he sees a slight tear in her eye, 'it hurts a little, he doesn't realise he's doing it, when he's talking about you, a case, an experiment, or drinking tea. Every syllable he utters, whether it's exasperation or fascination, he's really saying he loves you.'

* * *

><p>Mary finds it difficult to cry. There are moments when she can shed a tear or two, but even that is exhaustive. She feels older than she has been in years and, looking around at her house in the living room, she finds herself losing those moments of home, wine, and John. She wonders if she barely kept half of John, if she kept so much as kept an inch of him.<p>

Whatever it meant, she and John would forever be caught in this house, the ghosts of their passing moments played out like an abandoned reel of film, until the next tenant erased it all and filled the house with scenes of themselves.

The empty feeling in her stomach – she supposes this is some form of grief. The stairs where they would topple over, a little too happy with wine in their bodies, kissing each other gently and fumbling towards the bedroom. She remembers when his limp disappeared, when he would smile in the moments he remembered his best friend, Sherlock; remembers embracing him in the moments he wept for the man like a child.

She loved him. There is a part of her that always will, and there's no shame in that.

She hears the door open and close. She puts herself together, sits in the middle of the sofa in their living room.

John comes in, a wide smile on his face. He is sincerely happy to see her. 'Mary,' he huffs, panting from the summer rain. 'Haven't you see you in-'

He stops, his smile slips. He notices the living room is more bare than usual. 'Hello, John,' Mary smiles, lingering in the sentence. She knows this is the last time she will say it to her John.

'_Mary_…'

'Come sit down, John,' she says. He sits opposite her, looking lost. 'I want you to know this is most probably the last time we shall see or speak to each other.'

'Oh God – Mary, _don't_-'

'John, let me finish,' she says, leaning over to him, cupping his cheek. He leans into the touch, chaste, motherly. 'I would not take back these last two years with you for the world. You are the bravest, most loyal man I've ever met, and I will never meet another John like you. I want you to know that… that there is no bitterness in what I'm doing. I've been having…conversations with myself. Thinking over things.'

'Mary, I-'

'And I know you've tried – so hard – but it's not right of me to – to try and make _this _work when it can't, when you can't love me like you love him.'

John presses his eyes shut, tears escaping them. He's sobbing. 'Mary, I'm so sorry. I never – I didn't know I had feelings for – I couldn't understand it – that I possibly felt those things for him before he-'

She pushes his hair out of his face gently, smiles brightly at him, like the Mary he remembers looking oddly pale and freckled last summer, too vivid and brilliant against the grass, happier moments locked between them. 'In another time, another world, I think we could have completed each other.' John gives another violent sob. She kisses him slowly on the forehead, savouring the smell of tea, jam, and bustle of London. 'But it is my belief that when two people can fit and fix each other, they should never let go. You're a soldier. My dear John, fight for him.'

She looks up at him, wipes his tears away. 'Where will you go?'

She smiles. 'India. Briefly – I don't think it's permanent.'

'To follow in your mother's footsteps?'

'To follow her footsteps, I should think. I've been reading her old journals…'

He looks at her proudly. He's probably a blubbering mess, but he wants her to know –

'You are _extraordinary_... A long time ago, you said to me you're father was extraordinary, that men like him always leave and forget you. But you've surpassed him by far.'

She gives him a wink, one final gentle tug on his hair. 'Goodbye, John.'

'Goodbye, Mary.'

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> The composition that Sherlock plays is called 'Yearning' by Mark Bradshaw, an instrumental piece of music on the _Bright Star_ Soundtrack. The link is below (enter into youtube):

watch?v=eYnx9Lo1Cmg

Sherlock's violin playing – I mention a couple of Italian musical terms (brings back memories for me, playing the piano)

_Legato:_ meaning 'tied together' – used to indicate to the player to play the notes smoothly (opposite of Stacatto)

_Portato: _playing the notes together, rather than separately.

_Affettuoso: _to play with affection, love, and care.

'_You want to be the Brutus to my Caesar?'_ – Sherlock refers to the famous Brutus, one of the Roman senates who stabbed Julius Caesar to prevent him from becoming King/Emperor.

'_Who was the Sir Lancelot of Moriarty's bedtime story, hmm?' _Needless to say this references Moriarty's brilliant Sir Boast-a-lot story in the_ Reichenbach_ episode.

**Hope you enjoyed this one – it was quite angsty. I've signed up to archiveofourown, but it will probably take me a week or more to add the stories from my fanfiction account, because I'm still recovering from an illness. Lots of Sherlockian love,**

**Oliviaonthetrain xx (Thanks for the reviews!)**


	10. The Lovely Years

{Chapter 10 - **The Lovely Years**} In which Sherlock and John must talk.

_Those were the days_  
><em>When we had childish dreams<em>  
><em>We'd run through the house<em>  
><em>Chasing our cares away<em>

_Turn on the sprinklers_

_We'd roll in the evening grass_  
><em>Laughing until we cried<em>

_And I love the lovely years_

_No worries, no fears_

_Oh, what a great life_

_**(The Lovely Years by Fisher)**_

'_You were just a child…'_

'_I was determined from that day on I was no longer one.'_

* * *

><p>They don't speak. For moments that feel as if they stretch for hours, as if they pre-exist the boundaries of time and the logic of space, they stare at each other. Though intense, for once, the gaze is not awkward, but taciturn, still. Sherlock in his chair, John opposite him in his.<p>

'Mary left. But I know you've figured that out already.'

Sherlock doesn't break eye contact with John. 'You chose… me?'

John looks dubiously at Sherlock. 'She knew all along before I did. Sherlock, I chose _you_ the moment we met.' John studies Sherlock's face. It's not as stoic as it was before. It wears worry lines, eyes that dart back and forth, lips that coil as if to push out words, unsure. 'I just never knew at that time.'

Sherlock presses his hands together as if in prayer. 'The people who love you, John – Mary, your father, Harry – they all appear to be very decisive on the effect I have on you. They believe it to be a good thing. I'm far from perfect, John… Perfection does not interest me, only accuracy, knowledge, and observation. I'm not like others.'

John presses his fingers into his head. 'Of course you're not, Sherlock. You can be a bloody git sometimes. You leave heads in the fridge, chemicals in the bathroom, experiments in the microwave – God knows what in the kettle and the toaster. You leave _me _for three years, you make me think you're dead. If I had any sanity, I wouldn't have agreed to move in with you. But for all those stupid things you do, there's a million things you surprise me with that eclipses everything….

'You have the mind of a – you always said 'machine', but I think it's more than that – a mind, a beautiful mind, absorbing information like I've never seen before. The knowledge you have defies what I thought possible… You're not like the others, no. They think you're freak. They can't see what I can see.'

'And what's that, John?'

'The human in you.'

'_God forbid_…'

They smile at each other. Light movement of cars pass through Baker Street, but for now all of London is non-existent, and night drowns 221B into darkness.

'What do we do now?' John breathes, head facing the ceiling.

'You've been crying,' Sherlock says softly.

John snaps his attention from the ceiling and back towards an enquiring Sherlock.

'Yes, I-'

But his speech is cut short and Sherlock's limbs stretch towards John. He feels Sherlock's thumb trace the tear stains on his cheeks. It is so incredibly intimate, to have this tall, dark-haired man so close to him, that it strikes him with awe and terror. He finds his eyes gazing at Sherlock's lips again.

'Sherlock,' John says, his voice heavy.

'Hmm?'

'I know you're trying to help… That's wonderful, really. But – I need a bit more time.'

'For what?'

'You being this close to me… Might spark a couple of … things again. It seems to be the same with us. One minute we're talking, the next we've got our faces smashed together.'

'Oh, right. Of course – I didn't-'

'I know you didn't realise. Please don't take offence. I just want us to … talk first, start slow. It's a lot for me to adjust. It's hard trying to listen to your brain when your body's saying something quite different all together,' he says with a nervous laugh.

'Scientifically inaccurate, but I understand what you're saying.'

'Show-off.'

Sherlock half-smiles at him. Then something serious occurs between them, as if they've realised the enormity of this conversation.

'Perhaps we should talk about what we want, how we feel about each other?'

Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh. 'Yes, John, and then maybe we can plait each other's hair.'

'If you're going to be a complete tosser about this…'

Sherlock leans forward in his chair, looking at John. 'I've been reorganising my mind, John, even since you entered my life. I find it deeply amusing, at times horrific, baffling, beyond my knowledge, how thousands of Londoners, uninteresting, mundane, human, pass me, never making an impact on my brain other than an observation out of boredom or the eventuality of a case. And then there was that day at Bart's. Everything about you said 'soldier' – yet why that should have interested me in you, I was unsure. I thought, if anything, you could last at least a couple more weeks as a flatmate than others. You had seen worse in Afghanistan. But I found myself wanting you on cases, finding that you weren't a replacement for a skull after all, you were more than that… much more. I listened to you during investigations – bearing in mind that any attempt to listen to other people is a chance my neuron cells will never recover – but you were unusual, to say the least.

'I don't make room for people in my mind, John. But here you are, an exception to every imperative. There's the universe and then there's John Watson. It's not poetry – quite frankly useless – it's not romantic – such a notion is exhaustingly dull – it's like evidence in a crime scene. Inerasable.'

When Sherlock is finished, he sits calmly. John feels the urge to kiss him, but savours the last kisses they shared by touching his lips. 'I – I didn't know.'

'You didn't observe.'

'All this from someone who's never been kissed until recently.'

'Quite right… I had to store new information too.'

John grins. 'Right next to your knowledge on poisons – John Hamish Watson and kissing.'

Sherlock gives a deep laugh. 'Indeed.'

'Relationships?'

'What about them?' Sherlock's tone is prickly.

'Just because I was your first kiss, doesn't mean you've never had any relationships before…'

'It means just that.'

'Never – I hardly believe-'

'Never.'

'You were never interested?'

'My father wondered if there was something wrong with me.' Sherlock's face twists slightly, and John looks in disbelief. He's never heard Sherlock mention his past, other than 'Mother' and Mycroft. 'Past the intellect, he never thought it healthy, my detachment from feeling. He was the patron of detachment himself, but he found my mother. You can imagine if my father was so hostile towards my sociopathic tendencies, my school years must have been _chipper_.'

'No relationships as school, at uni… friendships, more?'

'You pity me. The tone of your voice gives you away.'

'I don't pity you, I pity them. The others who couldn't see you for you were.'

'I wasn't lonely.'

'I never said you were.'

'It what you wanted to ask, the question is practically leaping from your mouth. No. I was not lonely. Alone and lonely, I know for one thing, are very different from each other. Before I met you I was not exactly lonely – the people around me did not interest me as you do. But,' he says, pausing, considering his words, 'I might have felt some sort of human bereavement. Not having you around was … not without its challenges.'

John finds something catches in his throat. 'I – I think we should have dinner. Mrs Hudson isn't in tonight, and I think she'd appreciate it if she didn't find our skeletal remains when she got back. Would give her a bit of fright, don't you think? Dinner, then?

Sherlock gives a flicker of his smile. His John, always the soldier, reluctant to shed more tears. 'Sounds good. I'm famished.'

At Angelo's, at their regular table, it's mostly empty – the last hour before closure – and there's a sudden recollection.

'_You don't have a girlfriend, then?'_

'_Girlfriend? No, not really my area.'_

'_Oh, right then. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way-'_

'_I know it's fine.'_

'_So you've got a boyfriend?'_

'_No.'_

'You're thinking,' Sherlock says, scrutinising John under the light of the candle.

'Maybe… yes … don't look at me like that.'

'Want to save me the trouble of deducing? Although, given our location tonight, I have a thorough idea what's going through your mind.'

'Just thinking about the first time we were here. You made me forget I had a limp. You planned it.'

'You were the case before the case.'

'What?'

'I wanted to solve your limp first. I figured your weak spot is Italian. Wave a dish of Fettuccine under your nose and you're done for.' John laughs. 'So, are you going to tell me what you're really thinking about now or deter the original aim with more anecdotes?'

'If I'm going to be honest, I need to ask you something.'

'OK.'

'That night we came here, in the middle of the case, and I asked you if you had a girlfriend or a boyfriend…' Something in Sherlock's face denotes panic. 'I'm still a bit baffled by it. What exactly are you attracted to?'

'I don't do attraction. You are the exception.'

'Sherlock, you can't just simply not 'do' attraction. It doesn't work like that.'

Sherlock responds drily, 'Oh?'

'You must have been attracted to _someone_, even if you had to fight against your body – oh, sorry – against the chemicals in your brain...' John's voice trails, and Sherlock looks at him intently.

'Yes, there is.' Sherlock looks at him intently.

'Right… well,' John says, shuffling awkwardly in his seat, 'and I'm assuming you've never been intimate with someone?'

'Again, I don't do intimacy.'

John takes a swig of his wine. 'Right… and would you – would you ever want to be intimate with someone?'

The questions are suddenly more dangerous than he intends them to be, unplanned, hidden – he did not realise he wanted to ask them until he found them forming words through his mouth. He can't help but look hopeful.

Sherlock is perplexed, furrowing, darting his gaze from John to the window. 'John, I-'

'No, it's fine – I wasn't suggesting straight away – I just figured if we were going to talk about everything, then intimacy would be a big thing…'

'I don't under the appeal of it, but that's not necessarily an answer to your question.'

'Maybe I'm a little more traditional, but I've always held the idea that sex and love are inseparable.'

'Sentiment incarnate.'

'Perhaps…'

'You're experienced, I gather?'

'I – I suppose. With women.' He emphasises the last part, and he finds it hard to read Sherlock's expression. 'I've never – I've never found another man attractive. I'm not sure what this means now.'

'Sexual labels are exhaustive.'

'You don't identify as – as anything then?'

'If there's a category named John Watson, I'll be glad to sign up. That's all I am willing to accept as a label. It was only ever you. Most people are idiotic or _dull_, regardless of gender.'

'Ah, the Sherlock that I know so well.'

'_Right, okay. You're unattached, just like me. Fine. Good.'_

'_John, um... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I am flattered by your interest I'm really not looking for anyone-'_

'_No. I'm not asking — no. I was just saying. It's all fine.'_

'_Good. Thank you.'_

John twiddles the pasta on his plate with his fork. Sherlock's place is half-empty. Progress.

'Did you really mean what you said – all those years ago?'

'I said a lot of things then. Specify.'

'That you're married to your work.'

'Was my deduction about your interest in me wrong at the time?'

'I asked _you_ a question first.'

Sherlock exhales, hands clasped, elbows on the table, eyes on John. 'My brain rots without my work.'

'Yes, it does…'

'It's addicted to work.'

'I've noticed.'

'And you are not without similar qualities.'

'I bet you say that to all the girls.' John laughs at the puzzled expression on Sherlock's face.

'Are you saying I'm a mere addiction?'

'No – I believe it's more intricate than that… There are…spaces in my brain, frontal, temporal, occipital, parietal, that I do not easily give up to others. I've told you before, I firmly believe what I said, _ordinary_ people fill their brains with utter rubbish. There were moments between us – not the cases themselves, but after – when I was unsure what a look or a touch between us meant. I tried to delete it from my mind, but couldn't. If you were an addiction, I could find a substitute. John Watson is not a substitute.'

'I wasn't expecting you to say that. I mean there were times when you'd look at me, but I never thought…'

'Well, you never did ask.'

'No, I suppose not. But I couldn't. I wasn't sure back then.'

'What about you?'

'_What_ about me?'

'John, nothing gets past this hard drive,' he says, pointing to his brain. 'I asked you a question.'

'Right, yes…'

'Was my deduction right about your interest in me three years ago?'

'That's not exactly an easy question, Sherlock.'

'This talk between us was never going to be easy. We've been avoiding it for some time.'

John breathes heavily. 'At the time, I wasn't thinking about you … differently. I was perplexed at how you didn't seem to have anyone in your life. I'm not without eyes. You're handsome. Just a bit confused at how you didn't have a girlfriend…or a boyfriend. Scared you straight that night, I remember.'

'I'm not comfortable with talking about such things.'

'I know,' John says softly, and Sherlock's slight nod seems to echo a silent_ 'Thank you for understanding, John'_. 'And it's not as if you didn't give me a reason to be curious about your life. You never talk about it. It's always the work… God, were we always a couple? Why did you never deny it?'

'I don't waste my breath on irrelevant comments. Surely, you'd know that by now.'

'And yet you can get it in a huff about Cleudo or whom I date?' John says incredulously.

'They have obvious relevance to you, so I comment. That's not a waste of breath.'

'Oh.'

Sherlock smirks. 'Are you done with dinner?'

'Yeah, why?'

'There's a place down the road from Baker Street. It'll be mostly empty by now.'

'What's the place?' John says, as they exit Angelo's.

'The Planetarium.'

John is stunned. 'You and planetariums – _you_?'

'John, honestly, stop looking so astounded. Heavens, close your mouth.'

'I can't _stop_ – you, the man who said it didn't matter whether we went round the moon or the garden like a bloody teddy bear?'

'Yes, I was particularly annoyed with you that night – perhaps, _perhaps_, on hindsight I shouldn't have, but you were so preoccupied with changing the patterns in my brain. And no, I still don't care that we go round the sun. I visited this Planetarium when I was a child.'

'Is this – sentiment I detect?'

'Not sentiment, John. I only go here to feel grounded when my brain takes longer than usual to update information.'

'Why have you taken us here?' John says. 'As a man of logic, this place still doesn't add up to why you would want to go here.'

They're inside the Planetarium, cold, black, with the screen of stars and planets above their heads on the domed ceiling. They can barely see each other in the dark. John sits upright, hands resting on his lap, and Sherlock is almost swallowed by his chair, his limbs outstretched, head facing up towards the illusion of a night sky.

'Donavan and Wilkes were not the first to call me freak. As you can imagine, I care little what they think. I cannot be assumed to take the evaluation of myself from complete idiots, can I?'

'Who was the first?'

'My father.'

'_Sherlock_…'

'I don't need pity. I hardly remember when-'

'That's not true. I know you for real. You know the precise moment in your life when it happened. You can't delete things like that, no matter how hard you try. It's called being human.'

Sherlock scoffs, although ever so faintly, John can hear him say, '10 years, five months, three hours to the day. The unfortunate moment in which I actually cared what my father thought of me.'

'And you went here after he said it?'

'We were in our London home – though it was rarely used, except occasionally in the Spring.'

'Mycroft – was he there?'

'Unfortunately, yes.'

'He didn't say anything?'

'Why would any of them? What reason is there? In the Holmes' family the illusion is that our households were filled with love, not rivalry. It was the other way around, and my father was never to be overruled, least of all in intellect. And though I hate to admit it, even Mycroft surpassed him by his late teens. When I deduced something that wasn't quite to my father's liking, it seemed the world, like he did, saw fit to brand me with the term 'freak'.

'You were just a child…'

'I was determined from that day on I was no longer one. I came here, erased all the uselessness of intimacy and emotion because it got in the way of what my brain did best, and if people didn't like it, they were too ordinary to understand. Not my problem.'

'Fathers are meant to be happy when their child surpasses them. It's like a rite of passage. It wasn't your fault.'

'Oh John, in the world of normalcy, yes, I gather that is protocol. In the Holmes' family, such normalcy is impossible. Gives a new level of irony to what my mother called the lovely years of childhood.'

'What you said about intimacy and emotion…'

'What about it, John?'

'You said you wanted to erase it all here.'

'Yes, I did.'

'I'm not exactly like you, Sherlock. I was brought up with such values – would that possibly mean-?'

'John, I could never erase you. Nor would I want to, no matter how many God-awful woolly jumpers you wear at Christmas or how many times you insist on naming our cases as if they're chapters from a Mills and Boon novel.' John starts giggling. 'I'm glad you find your erroneous case titles amusing. I would be ashamed if it were my website.'

John can't stop laughing, and soon it's so infectious that Sherlock lets out a small chuckle.

In the dark, John's hand, warm, careful, sturdy, reaches out and holds his own. They are constant bodies, fixed, against the universe above their heads.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes and references<strong>: Lots of talking in this one, I know – but I thought it had to be done – to just have John and Sherlock in this scene talking, understanding things they didn't before, progressing, rather than just having them rip each other's clothes off suddenly. The themes of intimacy here, and also of Sherlock's childhood, are foreshadowing later chapters that I've planned (intimacy, in particular, for Chapter 11).

'_Yes, John, and then maybe we can plait each other's hair.'_

For the life of me, I think the 'plait' bit is a line from a TV show, possibly _Scrubs_, I'm not sure.

The Planetarium on Baker St. is no longer open, and hasn't been for a number of years – I used to go there when I was a kid. In, fiction, however, there are loopholes. Sherlock's complete lack of knowledge/interest in the Solar System was mentioned in _The Great Game_. I thought it would be an interesting dynamic to actually have Sherlock's childhood linked to the Solar System – because Sherlock despises feeling and sentiment, the very things that epitomise a happy childhood, and this chapter gives an explanation of his hostility towards it.

The quotes in italic are from, as all of your Sherlockians probably already know, _A Study in Pink_.

Mills and Boon is a publisher of romance novels. Why Sherlock should ever have this in his mind, I leave this up for you to decide. Funnily enough, Watson in the stories mentions how Sherlock appears to have knowledge of sensationalist novels, if I remember correctly… PM if I'm wrong though.

Wilkes is Sebastian Wilkes who, in _The Blind Banker_, stated that all of Sherlock's university peers thought him a 'freak'. I would definitely love to explore his university years more.

**The next chapter will mostly likely feature Irene, possibly Molly, and very likely Kate, Irene's PA, unless something drastic happens in the story arc. Happy reading! And thank you for your lovely reviews – I seriously love you all. I'm not hungry - let's have dinner. xxx**


	11. L'art de l'amour et la tromperie

{Chapter 11 – **L'art de l'amour et la tromperie or The Art of Love and Deception} **In which The Woman receives a note.

_Housewife, Beauty Queen, Homewrecker, Idle Teen,_

_The ugly years of being a fool, ain't life mean to be beautiful?_

_And you'll never know love._

**(The Archetypes by Marina and the Diamonds)**

_I lie back in a glittery mist and  
>I think of all the men that<br>I could have kissed_

**(Living Dead by Marina and the Diamonds)**

'Blemishes are hid by night and every fault forgiven'

**(Ovid from Ars Amatoria/The Art of Love)**

* * *

><p>'You never text me any more, Mr Holmes,' she says, her face lit by the reflected light of a glass mirror. Kate, her PA, sharp lips, reddening, creamy skin, hair cut neatly, clothes spotless and sparkling, traces her boss's mouth with a burst of rouge lipstick. 'I should have hoped you'd at least call before checking in on me.'<p>

It's a summer afternoon, and there she is. The Woman. Casually talking to the guests in her home, Sherlock and John, giving none of her attention as of yet to them, eyes rimmed with black liner, mouth moving slowly into a smile between her and her assistant.

'How do I look?' she quirks.

'Like perfection,' Kate says, smiling. 'My work is done.' She runs another finger through Irene's hair, pushes back a strand, and now it is almost Irene, her work, is a doll, not cracked, put together behind shadows and walls.

Kate looks at Sherlock and John briefly before leaving.

'I hope you didn't get dressed up for us,' John says.

'Hardly would have made a difference, Doctor,' she says, looking at him through the mirror. She turns to face him. 'I've got my old accommodation back.'

'Mycroft?' Sherlock says, though this is more of a statement than a question.

'Your big brother isn't so bad after all.'

'You know his motives are not purely altruistic.'

'They never are with the Holmes men, are they? They never should be. His motives are for you.' Sherlock scoffs. 'I am not without information, and Mycroft, whether you refused to share your nursery toys with him or not, would rather not see you die again. Neither would John, I imagine.'

John looks away. It's enough with Sherlock mentally deducing him, but he does not need The Woman getting under his skin.

'Seb knows where I am,' she says quietly. For a small moment, The Woman is undone. John notices, in a matter of seconds, the human behind the dominatrix. He only has to blink, and it's gone, her head high, her lips full, her hair precise, legs crossed, and suddenly she is once again the being that eclipses the rest of her sex again.

'Do I detect fear?' Sherlock says.

Irene smiles at him. 'Don't patronise me. You're not above it - fear. He won't come for me. That's not the soldier's method. He's one bullet, and I'm afraid it's not my name that's written on it.'

John breathes heavily, and Sherlock gives him a reassuring glance. This does not go unnoticed by Irene. The glance between them fills up the room to the point where even she feels like an intruder in a very intimate moment.

'Moriarty was fond of fairytales,' she continues. 'The strange detective, the fake genius who acted his way to fame, who couldn't take failure and took a fall off a building, plummeting to his death, cracking like humpty dumpty. Fairytales, stories. The breadcrumb trails, the ginger bread man burnt to the crisp.'

'And?' Sherlock says, a little insolently.

'Seb had a fondness for his boss that went beyond … professionalism. I'd imagine he'd want to continue Moriarty's tale. He didn't expect the storyteller to kill himself off mid-story, did he?'

'I don't work with fiction, Irene. I work with facts.'

'I'm afraid that with a case like this, there's no difference between them.'

'He left you a message,' Sherlock says, examining Irene's face.

Irene gets up from out of her chair, walks towards the door, the two men following behind her. She ushers them into a room, where there's a king-sized bed, white walls, impersonal objects – a photoless frame, a pale wardrobe, a generic beige carpet – and John thinks this is too unattached to be Irene's own bedroom. There are aspects of her that mirror even Sherlock's own aloofness every now and then, his own desire to go undetected by everyone else while he read their body, speech, mannerisms like a delicate document.

'Right here,' Irene says by the window, hitching up the curtain to the left. Underneath is a playing card: the Queen of Hearts, stabbed in the heart of the figure with a red dotted pin. There is a note attached.

_They fear her,_

_The Woman who plays her cards like an art._

_She played The Virgin,_

_But the untouched cut out her heart._

_Always the beholder of intimacy, the orchestrator of her show, _

_Playing her many parts,_

_How funny it is that she will never know love,_

_Over the cold and ice she reigns, The Queen of Hearts._

'Alice in Wonderland,' Sherlock mumbles. 'Undoubtedly straying a little from the original.'

'Sherlock, how on earth – you don't even remember the basic planets in the solar system. How did you manage not to delete the works of Lewis Carroll?'

Sherlock looks at him, eyes never quite glancing in one place. 'It's irrelevant.'

'As you can imagine, this is a problem for me. I am not without my work, and I prefer my clients not to have access to such details.'

'Because the nursery rhyme is true?' Sherlock says. 'Because you fear the woman that towers over them is more human than animal?'

John sees a slight resentment pass between them.

'_You_ would know,' she says, looking at John. Sherlock raises his head. He almost looks territorial. Irene is crossing personal space. 'I'm a professional, Holmes. You and I, both. It's an art. I would not have called you over here if I thought the note was only a threat to myself. I remember you saving my life once. Despite the tricks we practiced on each other, let me try and save you just this once.'

Sherlock goes to study the note and card once more, glancing at Irene.

She remembers the night before when a slightly wild Molly appeared at her doorstep. She ushered her in like a stray kitten – by the look of her dishevelled hair and the sweat on her face – she almost was.

'Sorry for barging in like this,' she pants. 'Sherlock – he knew where you lived. Had to discuss the fake autopsy plans with you. He said he was busy.'

They're in the dressing room, where Irene has her three-part mirror. Kate is untying her boss's hair. 'Kate, you can go. Relax, she's not a client.'

Kate leaves, sizing Molly.

'I'm not coming out from hiding. For now, I am literally dead to the world. And I think I prefer it that way, at least for now. Past mistakes, I suppose, biting me in irresistibly in the-'

Molly still pants. 'It's been a hectic day.'

'I'm sure.' Irene tousles her hair in the mirror. 'There's nothing discuss-' She pauses.

'_Molly_.' Why did everyone insist on forgetting her name?

'-Molly, nothing at all. My name's still attached to Sherlock, and Moriarty's huntsman wants to finish a fairytale.'

'What?'

'It's nothing. Forget I said it.'

There's another pause. 'So you're just going to – to stay dead?'

Irene, for the first time since Molly's appearance, turns around and looks at her. 'Poor Molly Hooper. Always the pawn on a chessboard, moving here or there. Must be tiring.'

'I thought you didn't know my name…' Molly says, baffled, and Irene smiles sideways at her. 'And anyway, not everyone can be the Queen on a chessboard.'

'Don't be a fool to think it's really the most important piece. Not with Moriarty. Not with Sherlock.'

'At least he looks at you.'

Irene stares in disbelief. 'My God, has everyone got it bad for the consulting detective? I was right. Brainy is the new sexy…'

'Do you still-?' Molly wonders if she should stop herself, but she's curious tonight. 'Do you still feel something for him? Did you ever – no, sorry, I shouldn't pry.'

Irene gives her a perplexed glance. 'Why on earth should we discuss something as unimportant as this?'

'John told me some time ago about what Sherlock did after he found out about you and Moriarty.'

'Did he now?' she says, nonchalant.

'_Oh dear God. Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?'_

'_No…because I took your pulse.'_

'Games, that's all it ever really is,' Irene adds.

Molly looks at her in the dim light. How ironic. She'd come in, stray, small, slight, and now she looked upon a woman who's profession is to dominate her clients in bed, and it is a paradox to the lone figure, taking off her make-up in the mirror.

'I'm sure _you've_ got someone,' Molly says. 'It's not like you're inexperienced.'

'You're a strange one, Molly… A lionheart, though you look anything but it.'

'Thanks… I think.'

'I don't do relationships, I'll have you know. I was told once by someone I considered to be very wise that everything I do can be an art. She called it L'art de l'amore et la tromperie. That's all relationships ever were when I was growing up.'

Molly watches Irene scatter Chanel No.5 onto her neck and chest, glistens like sweat. She suddenly feels she should not be here at such a moment of intimacy.

'Who told you that?' Molly asks. 'Your mother?' Why must she always say the _wrong thing_?

Irene laughs, puts the perfume away in a drawer. 'No. Far from it. Once upon a time I thought myself a weak person, so I cut out all the parts that made me vulnerable. They were unnecessary.'

Molly glances at the pearls, the pastel-coloured earrings and rings, assorted on the table like sweats.

'_Everything I said. It's not real. I was just playing the game.'_

'_I know. And this is just losing.'_

'So, there was never someone, then, in your life?'

Irene smirks. 'Interesting that you should want to know… Maybe. But we were just girls then.'

'A – a woman? _Oh_...'

'I'm amused you should be surprised. I did make an innuendo the last time we saw each other. A little unkind, perhaps, given your reaction. But I couldn't resist.' She says it as if it's game. Molly thinks perhaps it is. 'Kate's probably left. Help me get this off, will you?'

'I'm not sure I should-'

'I don't bite. Not always.'

'Right…'

Irene stands up gently, a recaptured dignity about her. 'I can't do it myself, before you ask. I can't reach the buttons at the back.'

'Well, that _is_ convenient.'

'Quite.'

There's silence between them. Molly's fingers are slippery, unbuttoning Irene's silk dress.

'And I'd say, you've been asking too many questions. _You're_ the guest in this house. If anything, you've prolonged your visit. I want to ask you questions. What about yourself?'

'What about me?'

'Was there ever someone?'

'I – there's been people in my life but no. It's not important – I'd bore you if I told you.'

'Pity,' Irene says. Molly unhooks the last button and the dress falls from Irene's shoulders down to her feet. Molly can make out the other woman's skin in the dark. She looks away.

Irene smiles at her, pulls her chin up. 'A lionheart doesn't need a lackey by its side. It can thrive on its own.'

Molly faces the courage to look at Irene who kisses the corner of her mouth teasingly slow. 'Good night, Molly.' She leaves. Molly watches the naked silhouette of The Woman disappear through the door, the trail of her scent behind her.

And so the memory of last night dissipates.

Irene's not sure why she should have thought about it now… 'When you're done sleuthing,' she says to Sherlock, 'I'll call for tea. A few things I want to say before you both leave,' she says to Sherlock, passing a glance at John, and leaving for the original room they were in before.

When John and Sherlock rejoin Irene, she's sitting towards the left of the sofa.

'Whatever you two have finally initiated between each other,' Irene says, and John is about to protest, 'be careful.'

'I don't see how it's any of your business,' Sherlock says.

'It isn't. And neither is it Sebastian's, but that won't stop him.'

Sherlock's face relaxes. John looks at him, recognises the glance he's giving Irene. He's curious. 'Don't think that little note,' Irene continues, 'was just intended for me. Moriarty might have been a psychopath, but he told Sebastian everything. I was just the onlooker.'

'What exactly are you saying?' John says, panic in his voice, back upright.

'There's a good chance Sebastian has been watching you, John, for longer than you think. And he's human, he's capable of grief. In some perverse way, he might have loved Moriarty.'

'And was Moriarty capable of reciprocating?' Sherlock snarls.

'What do _you_ think? I think that's a facet of Moriarty as obscure as Rich Brook. Either way, Sherlock's taken from him the only link he wants to have with the world, and he will be out for blood.'

'Well, he's not the only one with a good aim,' John says.

'No, I'm sure,' Irene smiles, looking at the two of them. Sherlock is busy analysing Irene's previous words.

He's not sure how it's happened.

John considers himself, for a more than competent army doctor and ex-soldier, baffled in the presence of Sherlock. When they don't the touch – those moments, such as the one on their way home in the cab towards Baker Street, he can handle. During this particular ride, there's a tension that he cannot understand. Sherlock appears more resolute and aloof than usual, looking out the window as if distracted by something.

And then the cab would brake suddenly, and there it is – a touch, an accident, contact between hands. John would eye Sherlock's expression and find it annoyingly stoic, except for the impatient tapping of his long fingers against his knee.

'What Irene said earlier…' John says, trying to break the silence.

'Mm.'

'About Sebastian – I won't let anything happen to you.'

'I know.'

'I couldn't bare if you-'

Sherlock isn't looking at him, continues not to look at him when they exit the cab and walk into 221B.

'I won't let him,' John continues. By this time they're in the living room, and Sherlock is pacing. He's propelled himself in a lengthy monologue without realising that Sherlock has been watching him.

'John … John. _John_.'

John swings around, mid-sentence, to find Sherlock towering closely over him. 'I'd rather not think about Sebastian Moran.'

'What on earth have you been thinking about on our way-?'

John muffles his sentence. Recognition of something quite profound spreads across his face.

Sherlock places a hand on John's face, still unsure of himself, of protocol, of intimacy, traces his lips like they're rare specimen, thumbs the corners of his mouth, his laugh lines, presses a kiss on his lips.

It's a kiss that lingers, though Sherlock looks an odd mixture of child-like uncertainty and arousal when he meets John's eyes.

'I think-' Sherlock starts, 'No, not _think_, Sherlock – God, why can't you converse properly at a time like this?' Sherlock appears to be speaking more to himself than to John.

'Sherlock,' John smiles. 'It's fine… This – what you're feeling – is perfectly normal.'

'I just want to … kiss. I'm not ready for – anything more yet.'

'Of course,' John says, pushing back Sherlock's hair. 'I don't think I'm ready for anything more than kissing.'

'Right…' Sherlock says, awkwardly. John finds him adorable when he's unsure, but it pains him a little to see how such uncertainty, how such a lack of knowledge in intimacy, causes him confusion and insecurity, qualities which are rarities in the tall, gracefully poised body of Sherlock Holmes.

'You're thinking too much, Sherlock,' he says, messaging his fingertips on either side of Sherlock's temples.

'Well, that's absolute nonsense, isn't it?' he says, though his voice is softer and his eyes are closed.

'Is this how you plan to _woo_ me, Sherlock? I don't think it's working...'

'It's nonsense because one can never think too much.'

'Yes, _one_ can. The time you almost took the cabbie's pill, the time you took up Moriarty's offer and met him at the pool, the time you decided that you couldn't understand what – what _this _was between us and took a little swim.'

'Occasionally, it has been proven that my mind…overloads.'

This time, John cups his hands gently around Sherlock's face. Sherlock will not admit it, but this moment is the safest and most content he's ever been. John's hands are healing, a warm, steady, physical cure to Sherlock's racing, raving mind.

'Then you have to promise me, Sherlock, that whenever you feel it's all too much, you come to me. You _talk_ to me, OK? Whether or not we're kissing, this is a relationship. And I don't like it when you're in pain.'

Sherlock gives John a warm smile with a slight look of perplexity, as if – and he probably is – he is studying him.

'What?' John says, but he's smiling widely. It's a glorious sight to see Sherlock so – is this even possible? – blissful, still, at peace. He can feel the goose bumps up and down his body. The afternoon sunlight from the windows hits Sherlock in the same way it had the day they were reunited. The only difference is that this time he didn't look ghostly, a pale imitation of a man he was sure he saw die. Now, he attracts a frame of dust particles, uncovered by the warmth of sunrays, electric around his body, face, hair, like halos, and each of his small, subtle movements – a quick blink, a slow smile, a rhythmic pulse beating in veins - makes him look more alive than ever. John wonders if he must have a precious secret that only he, and not the rest of London, knows: the transcending beauty of Sherlock in his most intimate moments.

'I figured out something. Three years late.'

'And what's that?'

'I remember once asking you why you cared so much what people thought of me. I did not understand at the time – why you cared so much and the silence that came after I asked you the question. I must admit I had a shot of panic run through me. I don't care what others think, that's the truth of it. But for you, the only person I consider caring for, to not believe in me – that would have been the end of me, and Moriarty would have succeeded.'

'Well,' John says, after a pause, 'I told you once you can be a bit of an idiot sometimes.'

They smile at each other, even giggle a little.

_He's not sure how it's happened. _

How they can go from giggling to smashing their mouths against each other, pressing kisses like bruises with urgency and matter and, for Sherlock, the delight of new found knowledge, is impossible to tell.

Somewhere between hands finding flesh – a collarbone, the side of a neck, a bit of skin of the torso where a shirt doesn't quite cover everything – they had stumbled into Sherlock's bedroom.

When the quiet laughing between them subsides, Sherlock lying on his bed, looking up at John over him, there is a comfortable silence between them. Neither can stop smiling. They don't even lean in to kiss, but just for now, in this very moment, they savour the kisses to come and whatever more there is to follow tomorrow and the day after that and so forth.

Sherlock mumbles, in a half-stupor, something along the lines of 'untouchable.'

'Mm?' John says softly, who has been running his hands with medical precision and ease through Sherlock's tumbling mass of curls.

'I said thought I was untouchable. I thought I didn't mind being untouchable.'

'Who said that about you?' John says, tense suddenly. He hates it when someone berates Sherlock. They don't know him like he does.

'No one worth mentioning, John.'

John answers by unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt a little and, seeing that the other man is complying, he kisses his collarbone, the untouched measurements of his alabaster skin stretched over his almost bare chest. Sherlock thinks his head will burst. 'Only kissing, John. For now.'

'I know,' he says softly, talking into Sherlock's skin. John kisses his temple, then back to his chest, to the patch of skin above his beating heart, and rests his head gently on Sherlock's shoulder. John wishes Sherlock knows how far from untouchable he really is, but perhaps it's difficult for others to see why.

Somehow it's lost – the method at which Sherlock can keeping collecting new data – John's delicate, softened face during a moment of closeness, his medicinal hands that touch his body as if it were a fragile, delicate thing, his kisses which come quickly and with practice, as if his lips were meant to touch his own, as if to resuscitate his mind back into consciousness when he thinks, lips to lips, tongue to nipple (_oh God, what is he meant to be thinking about again?_), he can only see white and everything deteriorates around them.

He doesn't ever want to this to be a deception. He is not unaware of such arts – he and Irene are practiced in them, after all, used them against each other to hurt and win.

But he is determined with John H. Watson that the battles that take place around London will not damage them. He thinks, as he collects and catalogues the sudden accuracy and strength of John's movements, a touch, breath against skin, a smile to say _it's all fine, everything's fine_, that it could never have been a game with him.

And he knew, of course Irene knew herself (he had faith in her intelligence), that he had deduced it before even looking at her, that she, too, experienced the all-too-brief nakedness of intimacy. That she might have let it go with Molly, that perhaps she still treasured her games because they were safe. He could not afford to let something as costly, as loved, as he now realised, between two warm familiar bodies, his and John's, slip away so easily.

He loved him. But as a quickly as the thought comes, he realises he is unsure how he should express it.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

There's really no excuse for this title to be French - I just like French, and I've been a bit obsessed with Marie Antoinette and the whole idea of seducing/courting as an art.

So John and Sherlock – making out in bed! I had a huge goofy smile on my face when writing that scene. It was – oddly – gratifying to give them a happy moment. Just kissing though, and some tongue, and a shirtless Sherlock…

I quoted Ovid at the beginning of the fanfic – he's an ancient Roman poet. This particular quote I referenced is from his book of poetry Ars Amatoria (aptly named for this chapter The Art of Love).

The Queen of Hearts is a reference to Alice in Wonderland. Fitting Irene should be nicknamed so by Seb, when she gets her own broken in ASiB. I feel like such an evil writer. I love Irene, really.

I purposely wanted to parallel the moments of intimacy between Molly and Irene, John and Sherlock. I do love the pairing of Molly and Irene, but I do leave a certain vagueness on purpose, mostly to leave room for interpretation and also not to distract from the main relationship of the story which is John and Sherlock. In this case, however, the flashback/memory between Molly and Irene is important in realising Irene's issues with intimacy and how they mirror Sherlock's. I find it compelling how Irene must use intimacy in her job, but that it must always be a kind of game for her because it isn't really real. That's not to say that it isn't necessarily real with Molly...

**Pay attentions to the nicknames/titles given to characters in this chapter. They will become important in the story.**

Irene's note – I made a visual mock-up poster/picture on my tumblr. Randomly – I don't know why. It's currently also the background of my tumblr. I also apologise for the rhyme - I'm sure Seb can rhyme better than I can!

I plan to visit Sherlock's family next chapter. So there's likely to be a bit of Mycroft and Mrs Holmes… I hope. Also, there might be rain. And the countryside. And a bit of Mumford and Sons (I love them). As of when it will come out, I'm hoping next week - the weekend, the latest. Purely because I've got an essay that I should really start writing!

_Thank you for your reviews – they're positively lovely! I can't tell you how much they mean to me – I am a little self-conscious about my writing. Sometimes I feel it's not good enough, but… I love you – you're all my division! :)_


	12. Candles, Fear, Rain, Relief

{Chapter 12 – **Candles, Fear, Rain, Relief**} After tension comes relief.

_And after the storm,_

_I run and run as the rains come_

_And I look up, I look up,_

_on my knees and out of luck,_

_I look up._

_Night has always pushed up day_

_You must know life to see decay_

_But I won't rot, I won't rot_

_Not this mind and not this heart,_

_I won't rot._

_And I took you by the hand_

_And we stood tall,_

_And remembered our own land,_

_What we lived for._

_And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears._

_And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears._

_Get over your hill and see what you find there,_

_With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair._

**(Mumford and Sons – After The Storm)**

_So it goes_

_The ordinary people,_

_They do not know who we are_

_Or what we're doing here_

_Wild flowers grow in the park_

_Summertime and it melts into dark_

_Dancing together at night until two_

**(New Buffalo – Cheer Me Up Thank You)**

* * *

><p>Last week was … unexpected, to say the least. John smiles to himself. The kisses between him and Sherlock haven't stopped since. There are moments when he pauses and thinks about the gravity of what he chooses to do, when he decides to kiss Sherlock here or there, on the beautiful arch of his neck, or on the sharp protrusion of his collarbone. Kissing someone else's skin, lips, he's been intimate before, but with Sherlock, it's … glorious. It's awkward and fumbling and delicate, and he thinks, remembering the moment Sherlock had that look in his eyes and told him he wanted to kiss him, that kissing him is purity at its finest.<p>

And even if perhaps – perhaps? No, he's been thinking about it constantly now, when Sherlock so much as glances at him. Even if he wants to pursue something … more intimate with Sherlock, he wouldn't do anything to jeopardise their relationship. He can spend his whole life with quick, chaste kisses, with holding hands, talking, sipping tea, solving cases, walking the whole of London.

But when he kisses Sherlock, he finds himself wanting something he needed. There's a new hunger, a quiet, humming urgency in the way they embrace and touch each other.

This morning, John looks to the left of the bed and finds it empty. Sherlock has a habit of wrapping his limbs around him in the night, warm. And now he feels a strange coldness at the absence of this maverick man.

He walks towards the living room, Sherlock's figure dark against the sunlight, his mobile in his hand.

'Sherlock?' John says, his voice tentative.

He watches Sherlock turn around, a gentle smile across his face – a little secret of intimacy between the two – and John's stomach flips, he breathes a nervous smile. 'Hello, John. Couldn't sleep any longer. I've received a text message from my brother.'

'What did he say?'

'My mother wants to see me.'

'Oh… Not necessarily a bad thing, is it?' Sherlock gives John a look, then turns back to face the window. 'And Mycroft himself will be there?'

'If I know my brother well, he's most likely there already.'

'Right,' John says, noticing something on the fireplace. 'You seem rather more agitated than usual.'

'We should really start packing – I'm going to hire a car – that's assuming you're coming.'

'Of course I am, Sherlock… Sherlock, have you seen this? You have, haven't you?'

John picks up the note by the fireplace, underneath a toy soldier in its red and blue uniform, pinned through the heart to the wood of the mantelpiece. John shudders. He hears Sherlock say, 'Initially I was going to hide it from you. I found it in the early hours of the morning … and I couldn't sleep. I thought it better if I was awake, then you would be safer.'

John reads out the note:

_There was once a tin soldier_

_Who was upright and honest._

_He saw a man fall,_

_Now he's no longer the strongest._

_From one soldier to another,_

_There is no place to run,_

_The tin soldier burns with his love,_

_The tale I write cannot be undone._

'Well,' John says, swallowing, 'I don't think any of us has to deduce who this note came from.'

'I'm not overtly familiar with this fairytale, but he seems to have an obsession with his boss's words.' John looks up from the note to Sherlock. 'To burn me, to burn the heart out of me.'

John breathes heavily, stands up straight. 'Sherlock… he's mimicking the story of the tin soldier... The tin soldier fell in love with – he fell in love with another toy. One day, a goblin warns the tin soldier to stay away from the toy. Anyway,' he says, sighing, 'the tin soldier falls from the windowsill and finds himself lost and, after a couple of fantastical events, he's thrown into the fire by a boy. And the toy he loves, incidentally, burns with him.'

Something slightly manic spreads across Sherlock's face, and John recognises it – he's regrettably been unaware of it before – as fear. Sherlock always appears above such an emotion, but fear gets him in the end.

'You don't have to be worried, Sherlock.'

'I'm not worried,' he bites back, 'about myself.' There's already an apology written in his eyes. John reads him so well these days. 'John…'

'I know you're sorry. It's fine. I know your manic behavior probably comes from a place of love.'

'Love…' John smiles to himself, watching Sherlock sound out the word. It sounds alien in his mouth.

The worry in John subsides a little, and he moves to touch Sherlock's face. 'You look awful,' he laughs. 'You can sleep in the car – I'll drive for a bit.'

'Thank you…' Sherlock says, looking at John fully.

'You hate admitting defeat, don't you?' There's pity in John's voice this time.

'When it comes to you, yes.'

John kisses him on the cheek, lingering the contact between his lips and Sherlock's cold, pale skin.

Sherlock, even after these past couple of weeks, is still shocked by the sudden affection he receives from John and he tenses a bit. John places a reassuring hand on the small of Sherlock's back, and Sherlock eases into John's embrace, kissing him with the luxury of knowing that he is safe, present, here with him.

The door bolts open. They've just enough time to part. Sherlock strides towards the window again, and John awkwardly picks up a newspaper.

'I just thought I'd bring up a tray of biscuits for you boys,' Mrs Hudson's familiar voice echoes through the flat.

'Tea,' John says, trying not to laugh, feeling his lips with his fingertips, 'tea would be splendid too, Mrs Hudson.'

'Indeed,' Sherlock says, a small, throaty laugh escaping his mouth.

'I'm not your housekeeper, my dear. But just this once... What on earth's got into you two? You're giggling like a pair of schoolboys. Anyone would think you've both been getting up to something naughty.'

John burst out laughing, his eyes flooding with tears, and Sherlock grinning at him. For a second, there's a look between them, one of those looks they've always shared but never thought much of, a giving and taking of the attributes they admire in each other, the exchange of brilliance in one man and openness in the other.

'Good heavens, I'll never know with you two!' Mrs Hudson says, bustling off towards the kitchen and setting the tray on the table.

* * *

><p>'… really, John, there's no need to be nervous.'<p>

'I'm not nervous.'

'Your shoulders and back are tense, a classic soldier response to battle, and we're neither on a case nor in extreme danger. Your breathing has also increased and on our way here, you complained of having a headache.'

'That was nothing.'

'Basic symptoms of anxiety, John.'

John smirks, as they reach the house. 'Do you really observe me so closely?'

Sherlock looks unsure of himself. 'Occasionally,' he says, giving John one of his half-smiles. 'I'd have thought the drive from London into Kent would have been ample time to reduce your anxiety…'

'Of all places, I never thought your family home would be in Canterbury.'

'We're a little way from the city itself. This is Whitstable Village – the Blean woodlands aren't too far from here either.' He pauses for a second. 'I used to go there frequently as a child.'

'What – surely not to _play_?' John laughs.

'To get away, mostly.'

He knocks the door three times. John takes a look at the house. It's a comfortable looking country house, plants sprawling thickly around its white walls, windows wide and littered with bursts of afternoon light.

He inhales the sharp scent of flowers, the earthiness of gravel on the pathway, wet from morning rain, the smell of prickly grass, and tries to imagine Sherlock as a child, reading, thinking, talking. And although it made him smile, he seemed to have gaps in his mind, the bits that Sherlock rarely talked of, the landscape that knew him before he was who he is now.

The door opens.

A woman stands with black protective goggles pushing her hair back, which is greying into an almost blinding white colour, reaching her shoulders, her boots frayed with mud, and the wrinkles around her mouth weary of old laughter lines. John looks at the rifle in her hand.

'Target practice. I knew too well I'd be interrupted,' she says, looking at her son. 'You go off to God knows where for three years and I have to wait till your brother informs me of the chess games you've been playing with criminal masterminds and psychopaths. But I'm just thankful you're in one piece. You must be John,' she says, turning to look at him. 'I haven't been told nearly enough about _you_.'

She smiles a little at him. 'John,' Sherlock says, exasperated, 'this is my mother.'

John is stunned. Sherlock's mother possesses the same feline confidence, a tendency to almost purr one response after another, a kind of Rembrandt beauty, the pale face and long body and monochrome clothes.

'Please tell me you didn't set up the targets in the garden again, Mother?' Sherlock says, as he and John enter the house.

'Where else?' is simply her response. 'I should think it might come in handy, knowing who's after you.'

'How does she-?' John starts, but stops himself. Whether or not Mycroft informed her of Moran, he realises that she is, after all, Mrs. Holmes, the very woman who gave birth to the British Government and a consulting detective.

They follow her into the dining room, Sherlock increasingly tenser than before. John is surprised to find the room so full of light and open, with tall long windowed doors looking out onto the garden with the shrubbery and lines of flowers and battered target posts.

Mycroft is at the dining table, finely carved and decorated, a laced cloth shielding the marble beneath. Mycroft looks at John pointedly. 'I was not informed you were coming, John.'

Crap.

John and Sherlock barely discussed the issues of their relationship on the way here, whether they should be open or cautious. But he thinks about it, realises that the only momentous change in their situation is that they are physically intimate, more than before, that they have to decide things consciously together and that, of course, what they are doing feels right, no longer in the shadowy recesses of his mind or pushed away by guilt.

Hands behind his back, clasped, he responds, 'I thought I'd come along. Sherlock didn't object. And I'm not stupid. This is obviously more than a family get together.'

Mrs. Holmes sizes him up, smiling. 'You're a tough little one, aren't you?' she says.

'Little?' John mouths.

But Mrs. Holmes is already seated, Sherlock pacing restlessly behind them, and John decides to take a seat as well.

'On the contrary,' Mycroft begins, 'I am most certainly not forbidding your welcome at our home. I'm merely surprised.'

'Why?'

'I thought you'd be busy with the Morstan girl.'

'She's – she's gone away. Trip to India.' John notices the pot of tea on the table and – strangely – the birthday cake sitting next to it, the candles unlit.

'Don't mind if I pour myself a cup, do you? Cheers…'

'I am well aware of that, John.' Mycroft has a look of intent interrogation on his face, but John can see – no matter how many times he's kidnapped or rejected by Anthea-or-whatever-the-hell-her-name-really-is, that Mycroft's aloof and somewhat domineering control is really just a mirage. He's constantly worried about his brother.

Mrs. Holmes has been watching her younger son, still listening all the while to the unusual conversation between John and Mycroft. 'Darling, really, your pacing is making me tired. Come and sit down,' she calls to Sherlock.

'I'd rather not.'

'Sherlock,' she says in a warning tone. 'Please, sit down.'

John tries not to laugh as Sherlock flings himself onto the chair dramatically. He must have been no different as a child.

'You know why he can't sit still. It never changes. He did it when he was a child, and he's doing it now,' Mycroft says, , 'he wants to avoid a subject.'

Mrs. Holmes dismisses him. 'Oh for goodness sake, Sherlock, you don't even know what I'm going to talk to you about.'

'Mother, I don't even have to bother deducing it. You are, if anything, a Holmes, and I know why you've called us both here.'

'A Holmes?' she replies. 'By marriage, yes.' She busies herself lighting the candles on the cake, and John has not quite worked up the courage to even ask who the cake is for and what it's doing in the dining room. Mycroft is eyeing it with want. 'I have a right to enquire after my son when his life is threatened by the second most dangerous man in London. After all,' she says, eyes focused on the cake, barely so much as a look towards the others at the table, 'I was not informed the last time of the danger you were in.'

'I personally consider it wise not to concern you. You're safer that way.'

'In under no circumstances whatsoever are you prepared to face Colonel Moran,' she says.

Sherlock looks at her, almost spiteful. 'You smell of perfume,' he says.

'_Sherlock_…'

'You haven't worn perfume since father...' he trails off.

John feels uncomfortable, and Mycroft sighs, his hands in his head. 'May I take a moment to take us back to what really matter? Mother is right. You aren't prepared.'

'You don't know the preparations I've undertaken. You know nothing of it.'

'Do you even know Moran's tactics, his methods?'

'I hear he's rather good with a gun.'

'I'm one step ahead of you, Sherlock, in knowing that whatever preparation you _think _you're taking has nothing to do with the fact that Moran will use your emotions against you.'

Sherlock makes a face of disgust.

'All he has to say is _John_ to make you jump. You are aware of that, aren't you?'

Sherlock looks at John apologetically. It's a brief moment of vulnerability only intended for him.

'You've no evidence of any one entering 221B from 1 a.m. to 5 a.m this morning, do you?'

Mycroft clasps his hands together, elbows on the table.

'Sadly-'

'What a surprise. Excuse me, but I have to unpack my belongings.' Sherlock stands up, glancing at John.

'I've a question,' John says. 'The cake – someone's birthday?'

Mycroft looks away. Mrs. Holmes blows out the candles, takes a kitchen knife and plunges into the cake to take a slice rather violently.

'Father's birthday would have been today,' Sherlock mumbles.

'Indeed,' his mother says, nibbling on a bit of icing. 'In remembrance of that insufferable bastard. Would you like a slice, John?'

'No… no, thank you… I'd better unpack my things too.'

John follows Sherlock upstairs, the photos of Sherlock's life unfolding before him. The little boy with the pale face and dark mass of curls on top of his head, the intense stare, the clockwork of his mind ticking, still appears before him.

'Your room's next to mine – nobody really uses it. It's usually empty.'

'Separate rooms…' John says.

'Yes.' Sherlock finds himself smiling. John appears to be making him do this more than often lately. 'Were you expecting another arrangement?'

'Well … your mother doesn't know about our – it's fine really. It's just I've got used to you being next to me.'

'We could change the arrangement,' Sherlock says, 'at night… I don't see how any one would object if they didn't know.'

'Yes … well, that would be – Sherlock, I'm in your _mother's_ house. My intentions ought to be innocent.'

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, John makes his way groggily towards Sherlock's room.<p>

'So, this was your room as a boy?'

'Yes … surprised she kept it as it was to be honest.'

'Your mother does love you, Sherlock. I can see it.'

Sherlock doesn't say anything. John gazes around the room, the walls plastered with a cut out copy of the period table that Sherlock must have ripped from a magazine, and a mass amount of shelves dedicated to books. John browses them… _Gray's Anatomy_, _Proteins and Molecular Acids_, _Mathematical Physics_, _Elementary Treatises of Chemistry_.

'A severe lack of astrophysics, I see,' John smiles to himself, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'That's because it's useless. Those books and their contents have never left my mind. I need them for the work I do, just as you need to understand the anatomy of the human body and its medicinal properties.'

'Did you just … sort of compliment me?'

'You're useful... Sometimes,' he smirks.

John smiles back at him. Perhaps today won't be intolerable, Sherlock thinks, with his soldier by his side.

'You'd better go downstairs,' Sherlock says.

'Why?'

'Mycroft's just gone off for one of his 'walks'. That just leaves mother …' He checks the time on his watch. 'And she'll be making another round of tea downstairs, waiting to question you.'

'Q-question me?'

'Better to get it done now than later. That's when the tears start. And I'd rather not be involved. I've never brought anyone home. She's curious.'

'What if she asks me about us?'

'John, she's a Holmes.' But this neither reassured nor calmed him.

John makes his way downstairs, Mrs. Holmes, as he suspects, busying herself quite carelessly with tea.

'John,' she says brightly. 'Tea?'

'Why not … I'd love some.'

They sit in the kitchen, Mrs. Holmes almost too large a character in such a setting. She watches him purposely. John can feel her eyes on him.

'Sherlock told me-' John starts, but he's cut off by Mrs. Holmes.

'Of course he did. He knows his mother only too well.'

'You're protective of him.'

'Yes… but then again, so are you. What you've done, Mycroft informs me, is quite extraordinary.'

'Extraordinary? Not a word often connected to me, I'm afraid. I'm just an army doctor.'

'You're much more than that. Look at what Moriarty thought of you. He knew. I must admit … when I heard about you, I was shocked. Sherlock's never been close to someone before.'

'He doesn't mention you often … I hardly hear anything about his family.'

'I don't see why he would. This home was not exactly a happy one. I imagine, for someone of my son's talents, it would have been stifling, especially when his father was here. For both of them, Sherlock and Mycroft. I remember one Christmas when they were very young … I got Sherlock a chemistry set and Mycroft _Battleship_.'

'Sums them up really, doesn't it?'

Mrs. Holmes smiles weakly at him. In a second she is composed again. 'Yes, well. Sherlock had concocted every chemical and solution possible and moved onto something else, while Mycroft decided to rewrite the rules of the game. It was not as if Mr. Holmes appreciated it. But then again, I'm not blameless.'

'Why do you say that?'

'I was never sure of how I should handle my sons … Mycroft seemed OK, determined, even if his father didn't like being overshadowed, to please Mr. Holmes. Sherlock was rebellious, unconventional…'

'Not unlike yourself.'

'And I grew cold, harder, because I didn't want Sherlock to ever feel … hurt. He was so ahead of everyone, in his mind, he never had time for sociability (although to be truthful, trying to keep a conversation with some of his school peers was like talking to a wall). And then came that awful, awful word.'

John bows his head in realisation. '_Freak._ People don't stop calling him that.'

'I've heard. I should have handled that better. I could have – I was never meant for mothering. I couldn't … I suppose he gets his aloofness from me. Ironic, really.'

'You could have handled it better. But you're not a villain.'

She looks at him. He finds, holding her gaze, that she also shares another trait of Sherlock's: the same intensity in her watch, a feeling that she can easily undermine or break someone, if she wants to. Manipulation, studying emotions that rarely affect you, at least not publicly. It's a Holmesian skill, John thinks.

'What are your intentions towards my youngest son, John?'

He almost spits out his tea. 'Intentions. We're just-'

'I don't have the skills of deduction that my son possesses. But if a man looked at me the way he looks at you, I would have left this place years ago. I know you're friends. I know you're also more. Look at you – stuttering – not as good at lying as Sherlock is, no doubt – you didn't decide on a alibi on the way here, then?'

'You really ought to talk to Sherlock about this. It's not my place.'

She presses her hands together, leans forward in her chair. 'Sherlock will never come to me about his relationship with you. I love him enough to know that's not what he does. Not even his brother knows as much, he only assumes, occasionally watches you both. He elected the oddest career in the world for someone who's mind works like a machine – he would have excelled in the sciences, in medicine, in anything he wanted, and yet he chose the streets of London. I'd imagine if he was in this room now, he would say that what he does is purely scientific, methodical, deductive. And I agree. But they aren't without human interest. I believe, somewhere in the murky recesses of Sherlock's mind, he's subconsciously been looking for the reasons behind what ordinary people do. Why they choose to have friends, to love, to destroy others. It's always eluded him, and I don't see why he would have any interest in it. That is until you came along.

'You are, after all, human interest.'

'I think you give me too much credit. Sherlock may be a bit of a sod sometimes, but he's not heartless. I might have thought he was at once … but he's definitely not.'

'Do you love him?'

John blinks, in shock. 'That's … personal.'

'You're afraid to tell him. Understandable. He isn't the most receptive of people when it comes to emotions.'

'He doesn't know how to handle it, that's all.'

She smiles at him. 'When I told my late husband I loved him, he handed me his cigar to light. Doesn't give Sherlock much incentive to be interested in love, does it? Love was never a constant thing between me and Mr. Holmes, but facts and knowledge to Sherlock were infinite and fixed.'

* * *

><p>'Has Mother finished interrogating John?' Mycroft says. The sun is setting, droplets of rain beginning to form.<p>

'I don't know. Unlikely.'

They've managed to bump into each just outside the house. The sky darkens.

'I can't say I'm not surprised you came. But it's not like you're entirely heartless. She's missed you, you know.'

Sherlock presses his fingers into his temples. 'I don't see why you need me here. It took me a long time to escape this place, and now I find myself back its grasp.'

'You talk of it as if it's prison.'

'It was when he was here.'

'But father isn't here anymore… Typical.'

'God, I need a cigarette,' Sherlock gasps, looking up at the sky, skin collecting rainfall.

'Typical that you should only look back on our family home as a mere _obstacle_ between you and London.'

'It's not as if I was the sole pride of my father. You were doing exactly what he wanted. You were _understood_.'

'And you never wanted to be.'

'No. He was undeserving.'

'Heavens! Give the man a little slack. He came from a generation that still believes they live in the 1800s. It was hard for him to adjust. You had – have – a great mind, as much as I abhor to admit it to you.'

'Of course – of course I'll give him a _little slack_. He moulded everyone's mind to fit his own. He was a – disease, a _virus_. I watched my mother diminish herself under him, and you cower in front of him. You want to talk to me about fear and emotion. I found it highly amusing, laughable, really. You run a government, but if father was to stand here, right now, you would quake in your shoes.'

'Nonsense…'

'When he turned to me and called me a freak, I no longer easily moulded to suit his needs. So, no, I will not give him a little slack.'

'I never condoned his actions...'

'You never argued on my side.'

'It's as if you erased all that happened before! I'm _still_ your older brother, Sherlock. I did take care of you. I still take care of you, but you just resent it.'

'We're not children anymore. There was a time when you realised you were older, and I was the freak, and you mothered me.'

The rain falls harder.

'You never told me this, how you felt.'

'It's irrelevant now. Please, Mycroft, understand that everyone in this house except John is a Holmes. We don't fix things like this. We're perfectly competent in the way we communicate, otherwise things like_ this_ happen, and it's exhaustive and irritating. It's not as if I'm not appreciative of what you've done for me while I was hiding. But let's not act as if blood is what keeps us together. Whatever bond we had, that's been gone for some time.'

Sherlock strides past him.

'We worry about you, mother and I. That's all. We care.'

'I know,' Sherlock says. 'I'm fine.'

He doesn't know that John has heard their raised voices from the inside the house.

* * *

><p>The Blean Woodlands hasn't changed. As Sherlock stalks through its endless shoots of trees, their leaves half-sheltering him from the rain. He's not sure whether to be resentful of the place. The things he's tried to delete, but simply could not, would not, haunt him here. He finds the youth that went by is still caught in this very forest, the insignificant, forgettable moments of childhood … wanting to be a pirate, his older brother grudgingly, but cautiously, playing along. These are the locked parts of himself he so feared to release … what would the release of memory, of childhood, do to him?<p>

And he hates fear. He was a child once, and that could not be helped. But he rarely revisits with glee the recollections that other children cling to, the birthdays, the parties, the maternal embraces. Those things were cut short, abrupt, as if, like the fairytales his mother used to read to him, something monstrous had stole them away from him in the night. Like it was a sick, cruel joke, and he found himself Peter Pan in reverse, growing older by the day.

And then he resolved to cut out all the processes of emotion, pain, unless they helped him with his observations. Observations are real, not fables.

Old, battered, dangerous, poisonous, demanding London: that was his home now. That and John and his mind. And if one of them falters, what then?

_Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. _

'Sherlock…'

He's stopped walking for a minute or two. He hears footsteps behind him.

'Sherlock, we really ought to stop meeting this way. You, running off, me, attempting to find you. Sherlock, what did I tell you last time?'

'I don't know.'

Sherlock is cautious of facing John properly, but John slips his hands onto Sherlock's arms, holds them with stealth and assurance, a contrast with the nervous John that entered Kent hours ago. 'I said to you, if we're going to be in a relationship, you need to talk to me. We can't keep running from things like this.'

'I'm so tired, John.'

'I talked to your mother...'

'And you're still standing… Brave man.'

'You knew she knew.'

'I've no idea what you're talking about.'

'You knew she knew about us.'

'I merely said she's a Holmes.'

'You're impossible…' Sherlock frowns, opens his mouth as if to speak. 'I love you.'

'John…'

'I didn't think I would say it now – but I – you don't need to respond, really, if you don't – I mean, I understand-'

'John, you amaze me.' Sherlock studies him. 'I've been planning to somehow tell you – and you just _say it_. You surprise me in the most absurd way... I'm not really a person who says these things. I think you should have known by now how I feel. It's irreversible, I-'

Their foreheads meet, lips not quite touching.

'I've always loved you,' Sherlock says. 'I confess I feared you wouldn't reciprocate.'

'Well, then, you're an idiot. If I had known what you were going to do three years ago, I would have jumped with you.'

'I couldn't let you.'

'I'm choosing now – I think I chose all along – Sherlock, I'm not leaving you. I'm choosing to live and die with you, whatever happens.'

When they reach the house, Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft watch them through the window in her room.

'I should try to-'

'Give him time, Mycroft… Besides, I think they should be left alone for this evening. Look at them. They've got that look in their eyes.'

'God ... I don't want to even know.'

'I'm happy for them.'

'Perhaps John is the making of my brother after all. I thought hell would freeze over before he showed affection…'

* * *

><p>'Tell me what you want,' John says softly. Sherlock tries to answer, but it feels as if his brain is processing too much all at once. There's just John, John's touch, John's lips, John removing his clothes.<p>

'I - John, I'm not sure what I – no one's ever – I just want you.'

'Where do you want me touch you?'

Sherlock finds himself amused by John's gentle, but precise questions – an interesting paradox against the gruff tone to his voice he's not heard before.

They're fiercely locked in kisses, in embraces, the door to Sherlock's room slamming behind them. Sherlock masters every inch of his control to remove John's shirt.

'_John_ … more.'

'More, what?'

'Please … God, more kissing. _There_.'

As John settles on top of Sherlock onto the bed, they share a smile between on another. Sherlock finds a strange continuum of time occurring – how strange, to have slept here as a child, wishing himself onto some other place, to come back here, grown older, wanting things he never thought possible, necessary, to his mind. But here it is, smiling at him. John, who fills up his mind and his childhood bedroom.

He traces John's scar on his shoulder, brings his head up, lightly kisses it, touches the old wound with a finger.

'I never did like that scar,' John says, shyly. 'Reminds me of certain things … too often.'

'It's …' Sherlock begins, trying to find the right word, 'you. It's … fascinating.'

John feels his body warming, a flutter inside him. He kisses Sherlock's neck, runs his fingers over the pink flesh of his nipples, kisses further and further down the torso.

'John … I want to … I need.'

'Tell me, Sherlock.'

Sherlock, who is writhing, unsure, unscathed, with his lips parted and his head tilted. 'Relief... I need relief.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. I trust you.'

John unbuttons Sherlock's trousers, feels a mixture of nervousness and arousal pulsing through his hands at the sight of the protruding bulge in Sherlock's underwear.

He reaches inside, takes Sherlock's swollen length with one hand, places the other hand under Sherlock's head.

'I've got you, Sherlock.'

Sherlock whimpers softly, John's name on his mouth, in between endless kisses.

The scent of John perpetrating, warm, igniting, assured, above him.

'You're thinking…' John mumbles. 'Let go…'

Breath against skin, the repetitive strokes of John's hand against Sherlock's flesh, hardening, the barely perceptible moans and panting under gasps for air, feverish, sweating. It's messy and imperfect and Sherlock loosens before him, undone, and tumbling, and it's the most beautiful thing John has ever seen.

And Sherlock slips in and out of control, never quite losing the anatomical structure of John before him, the dilation of his pupils, the quickening of his pulse, the feeling of wanting to return the act of intimacy for John - a new conscious desire to reciprocate, to rise above his own needs, mind, body.

He moves his hand, fingers long, stretching, shaking a little, towards John, to touch, for the first time, like the small boy he once was, experiencing the pleasure of innovative knowledge, like gifts waiting to be unwrapped on a Christmas morning.

* * *

><p>'You're seeing someone,' he says. There's a pause. 'You knew I deduced it from the perfume you were wearing.'<p>

'I'm surprised you didn't say anything, Sherlock.'

'Mycroft will have you on CCTV alert 24/7 if I did.'

She runs her hand through his hair, and he – in the privacy of his home – reclines into her touch. A tear stains her cheek. She lets it run.

'And when were you planning on telling me about John?'

'I didn't think I needed to. You're a smart woman. He's … surprising.'

'Mycroft never tells me much about whoever's in his life ... I suppose I can hope for grandchildren now. Your father would have had kittens about your relationship.'

'You'd be better off asking Mycroft for grandchildren. And seeing father's reaction to John would have been most amusing.'

'People will talk … when you're revealed back in London, when they find out about you and John.'

'Mother, they do little else.'

'I do hope you and Mycroft will get past yesterday. With Sebastian Moran on the lose, I don't think we can afford petty arguments.'

Sherlock does not reply. By the afternoon, he's got his coat on, swinging in full length behind him, his belongings and John's packed into the boot of the car. John says his goodbyes to Mrs. Holmes – he's surprised by her almost stifling affection towards him, but he supposes John ignites it in others. A conductor, magnetic, electric in the normalcy of his balanced movements.

Sherlock stands at the door of his childhood home, Mycroft at the edge of the pathway ahead. They nod at each other. It's a fleeting moment that nobody else notices. It is purely between the Holmes brothers, a nod – perhaps neither of them would admit to – that seems to clarify them, as if to form words to say things they can't possible say to one another.

_I'm still you're brother. _

_I can't fix things between us in a day. _

_I care, and will continue to care about you, even if I cannot show it. _

_Take care of yourself. Be careful. Be smart._

Mycroft is the older boy who once bandaged Sherlock's childhood cuts, his bruises, nursed his scars, after all. He's never stopped. And Sherlock understands this, even if he cannot quite accept it.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

Mother Holmes was inspired by this: post/19974551198/helen-mirren-is-mother-holmes-inspired-by-this

I will now forever see her as Helen Mirren.

Most of this chapter is set in a small village in Canterbury, Kent, for no other reason that the very fact that I like Kent and I want to visit it some day. And Chaucer set the Canterbury Tale's there, and I quite like Chaucer.

Seb's rhyme (essentially, my own awful rhyme) was inspired by The Tin Soldier fairytale story John mentions. The soldier actually falls for a paper ballerina, or something of the sort, but I don't think Sherlock would have appreciated that… So I left that part out.

I had fun with that Mrs Hudson scene – haven't written her in a while.

I found it hard to write the scene between Mycroft and Sherlock – I felt a little sad afterwards, but I didn't want this chapter to solve all their problems immediately. I just wanted them to have some sort of recognition between them.

Mycroft and cake… 'Nuff said. And John and Sherlock got even more intimate in this chapter...

**I should be able to write another one for later this week – I've another assignment so we shall see. You can always contact me on my tumblr which is on my profile page. Thanks once more for your encouraging reviews – it keeps me going! xxx**


	13. The Years Burn or The Beast

**Notes**: Aside from the email, this is very much a Sebastian-centred chapter and in his POV. I have to say, it's unnerving entering his mind – he is an interesting, if not disturbing, character, and I've tried (hopefully) to implicate the things that could have caused Seb to become Colonal Sebastian Moran, second most dangerous man in London. The email from Mary idea was suggested by Power0girl (hope you like it!).

This is also one of my shortest chapters – and the hardest to write – so please don't hit me! Thanks for all your support and reviews and encouragement – next chapter I'll make better, I promise!

**Warnings: It's not graphic, but I do think it's disturbing – Seb commits murder/war crime. Also, to let you all know, this is all purely fiction – especially with the mention of war – which I know can be a sensitive topic.**

Lastly, sorry for the delay in updating and enjoy!

* * *

><p>{Chapter 13 – <strong>The Years BurnThe Beast**} In which John reads an email and Sebastian reflects on events in his life.

_Hey, little boy, is your mama home?_

_Did she go and leave you alone?_

_Oh, got a bad desire_

_Oh, I'm on fire_

_Tell me now, baby, is she good to you?_

_Does she do to you the things that I do?_

_Oh, I can take you higher_

_Oh, I'm on fire_

_Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, edgy and blunt_

_Put a six inch valley through the middle of my soul_

_Oh, at night I lay at home with the sheets soaking wet_

_And a freight train running through the middle of my head_

_But you, you cool my desire_

_(**Bat for Lashes – I'm on Fire – Bruce Springsteen cover**)_

_Disarm you with a smile_  
><em>And leave you like they left me here<em>  
><em>To wither in denial<em>  
><em>The bitterness of one who's left alone<em>  
><em>Ooh, the years burn<em>  
><em>Ooh, the years burn, burn, burn<em>

_I used to be a little boy_  
><em>So old in my shoes<em>  
><em>And what I choose is my choice<em>  
><em>What's a boy supposed to do?<em>  
><em>The killer in me is the killer in you<em>

_(**The Civil Wars – Disarm – Smashing Pumpkins Cover**)_

* * *

><p>18th July<p>

I thought it was time that I should send this. I've been writing and re-writing it, refusing to send it, obsessing over it, just because it's been such a long time since I … since we even talked to each other. A phone call would have be too much, far too much too quickly.

But I had to find some way of communicating with you. I'm still in India, longer than expected, but I think it might be a more permanent location, at least for this year. I'm still teaching, never wanted to leave it at first, and I absolutely adore the children here. I still get letters from my students back in London, but sometimes I find it hard to read them all, even to open them would remind of … But never mind, that's all in the past, isn't it? Us.

Leaving was the best decision I made – not merely because of the complications of our relationship – what we had, I was proud of – strangely, I admired you. I wanted to hate you, but I couldn't – it was awe that I felt. Pain, yes, but awe – you always had courage. And I lacked it. It just took time for everything to fall apart to realise my father would never love me in the way I wanted him to. And that you couldn't either.

I've been working alongside the University of Dehli – a small role, minor even, but I'm working my way up – in their archaeology department, which explains – if you could see me now you would laugh – why I am covered in sweat, dust, and something I can't quite distinguish all together. It's messy, but I need it. It sounds silly, but I feel sometimes my mother's beside me when I'm working. I've had years of my father, and though I love him, I'm afraid I do not like him.

Do you remember when such a thought would sadden me, and you would comfort me? I don't know if I ever thanked you enough for that. These days, I've no time for sadness I suppose.

But I've gone on enough about myself. What about you? A long time ago, when we separated, I told you to fight for him, for Sherlock. I have a feeling you did. (I bloody well hope you did, John). And I'm happy for you.

Please don't hesitate to respond to this email … I'm eager that we should at least be friends. We were once, after all, two people who lost themselves and hoped we found something in each other.

Tell Sherlock – because I know he will probably be the first person to read this email and not you – that he is a very lucky man and that, no, I cannot let him use the archaeology department's database for his own personal uses (unless it's an emergency).

All the best,

Your Mary.

* * *

><p>He washes his face and body like he's painting himself with the colours of war, the mud, dirt, and blood – his own – somebody else's – he can't not tell the difference. He's been thinking a lot, too much, these days … perhaps because he knows he has a certain task to perform, knows well enough that Sherlock's deduced it too.<p>

No wonder his boss was so enfettered with him, two impossible men. There it is, at the back of his mind, a silly numbing jealousy. He never forgets the way Jim said Sherlock's name. In every personality he disguised himself with, it was the same, that name _Sherlock_ as if drawn out from the mouth of a lover. He remembers being anxious. He was always the favourite, the special one, the man with the gun, and Jim would show a fondness rarely given freely to others.

'You're … interested in him,' he says one day to Jim.

'Sherlock Holmes, the man in the funny hat. He's,' Jim pauses, thinking, 'different. That one, he's shown his human weaknesses though. Disappointing.'

'Am I … different?'

Jim breaks from his thoughts, an amused smirk on his lips. He absentmindedly strokes Seb's hair. 'I told you already – you're a hunter.'

'Many people hunt.'

'Many people don't have your skills or your psyche.'

'Psyche, boss?'

'Do you know why I picked you? It's because you like to play with your targets - like characters in a story. Power issues. I saw it written all over your face when we first met.'

'I think I'd have to disagree.'

'You like to play mother and father, setting up your victims like naughty children in fairytales. Sure, even _I_ like a good game now and then, I like to create puzzles to stop myself from boredom. But you … I tell you to pull the trigger and _boom_. No hesitation. Because they're just characters to you, fiction, stories… You're constantly worried about being ordinary. Bit predictable now, Seb, isn't it?'

'I'm not _him_.'

'No, you're not. Much less noticeable. Practically invisible.' He sees the expression on Seb's face and laughs. 'It's a good thing. I don't want anyone noticing you except me. That was always part of our deal, Seb, wasn't it? You and me, teaching you all the arts of hurting and hunting, taking and winning.'

It doesn't convince Seb at the time.

The morning light seeps through his apartment. He is anonymous in nearly every sense of the word, looking out of the window onto a part of London where his acute eyes, sharp, stalk out the weak ones in a crowd. He sends off a nobody, paid in the cash that's steadily receding from his wallet, to do his bidding to leave a note at 221B, a face he can't quite remember now and probably won't see again.

John. The others, he is mostly indifferent to. The Woman's note was for leisure, but John – John is his _almost_ self, the man he might have been.

God, he's ordinary, Seb thinks, perplexed at how Sherlock never gets bored or infuriated by him. He's a soldier, yes, undeniable in the way he carries himself and stands, but he's … meek. He was half delirious with joy when, that one night at the swimming pool, where he had the power, trembling in his hand, to aim and level the rifle on the sinewy forehead of Sherlock, watching John's face pull with fright and shock. His little Tin Soldier. It's easier to pull his arm or leg, easier than he previously thought.

He takes a cigarette, lights it with a slightly shaky hand. Where did all this anger come from? What if Jim had lied to him? What if he isn't different but _ordinary_?

This ordinary man, who carries his daily life in the lines and folds of his face, carries an unmistakable human affection, weakness, intimacy, with a man more brilliant than him, breaks so easily when he fears Sherlock can be taken away from him.

John is not flesh and blood, not the anatomy of a soldier, a body strong and noble.

How could John forget the moment when he came face to face with Seb himself in battle? That small, seemingly insignificant moment in which two soldiers acknowledge each other's existence, breath, pulse, life, in a situation that could take such those very things from them in an instant.

This moment happened before everything, before Sherlock, before Jim.

And he remembers thinking, hot and tempered and rebelling against his parents, how similar they seemed. The thought disgusts him, chills him now, but it never leaves his mind.

To John, covered in the communal uniform of most soldiers, Seb was not yet Sebastian Moran. At that time, they were both Majors, John eventually earning the rank of Captain, while Seb learnt that Jim could easily buy him the title of Colonel.

Jim cleaned up all of Seb's life, gave birth to a new self, when he had just lost the will for reputation.

'What made you do it? I like that story, Seb. Favourite one of mine. Tell it to father again,' Jim would say, stroking his hair.

It's a touch that stays with him, a strange touch, one in the absence of a mother, a father, a lover …

'I don't know,' Seb would reply.

'You wonderful liar, Seb… You told me once. Tell me again.'

Of course he remembers, Seb thinks.

It happened during an offensive in the dusty heat of an afternoon, the sun hot on his back, stinging. The afternoon, his final afternoon, in the army.

He's strayed from the rest of his team. The feeling of invisibility that once plagued him now becomes an asset.

He's as far away from home as possible, he thinks, walking … the humid air and heat is different from the country back home where his father and mother wait – not for him, of course – breathe, live, carry on without him.

He feels elastic and electric and dangerous – the tingling possibility of burning all the years before him, a chance to delete and start anew.

It's the feeling of a rifle in his hands, feeling like he's finally home.

_You're talentless. I'm almost ashamed to let you ruin the good name of Moran._

_You never amount to anything Sebastian. _

_Your father's disappointed – why do you have to make my life harder?_

All the little moments of playing Mummy and Daddy with the teacups and plates, proper manners, and wine – torture.

It's a little wonder why he looks into the mirror everyday and sees, not just a hunter, but a beast.

He isn't ashamed… Walking across the path of some civilians – a family - hiding behind an abandoned building… That's what he is, after all, as if some paradox in a fairytale, both the hunter and the beast.

And finally, those voices, low and angry, always sounding like his mother and father, _Sebastian, do that, Sebastian, for heaven's sake do this, Sebastian, it would be better if you weren't born_, are dying out in his mind, as he fires his bullets, precise, quick, lethal.

He looks at them briefly, the mother, father, daughter, and son huddled, dead, as if stretching their limp arms out to one another in some strange need of comfort.

They were all the enemy, these families, falsifying happiness. It never existed. Pure fantasy, fairytales… that's all they ever are.

* * *

><p>'Are you sure about this, boss?'<p>

'About the game? Of course not. I would tire of it otherwise.'

'You owe him a fall, boss?'

'I do, Seb. I do... I told Sherlock a long time ago-'

'You'd burn the heart out of him.'

'Indeed, and I've got you on that job, haven't I?'

Seb nods. 'Sometimes,' Jim says, 'I think you're still that same man plucked out of the army. A boy with a toy gun. You look so… young.'

'I'm not,' Seb remembers saying, a new edge to his voice that he didn't realise until now.

'Oh, tut, tut, tut – there he is. _The beast_. Didn't take long for him to come out now, did it, Seb?'

Jim places his hand, coarse, against Seb's face, cupping his cheek and chin. Seb feels Jim's harsh breath against his skin … there's no false comfort between them, just a strange union, a quick, rough kiss, a tug of hair. With Jim it's a play of power, it's all Seb has ever known, and he understands very well that the kiss between them is one of possession. He belongs to Jim.

That same mouth which held him and kissed him in spite is now lifeless.

He feels disgust. He's ordinary, he's another John, just in different circumstances. That he should feel anything but the soldier, to feel as though he wants a mother and father again, the remnants of a inane childhood coming back to haunt him.

It takes him a couple of moments to realise he is alone.

He cries on the floor, the rifle cradled in his arms under the cold light from a window.

Through his tears, there is a determination, to study bodies, their weaknesses, the points at which the skin is thinnest, breakable, weary, he wants to caress the thought, when he comes to complete Moriarty's tale, of how to fracture the man who took his boss away from him.

He will pick himself up, rise, aim, hunt.

* * *

><p><strong>More notes:<strong>

'All the arts of hurting' etc – this line is from Wilfred Owen's A Terre.

As with the title 'Colonel' I found an issue – Seb would have to be much older for such a title in reality, and in these stories he's fairly a young man … so I decided Jim might have done a favour for Seb (a title to appease his grumpy father, Augustus) to lure him into his service.

There was very little dialogue in this – not sure why – but a lot of flashbacks.

The civilian family scene was disturbing to write, but I felt Seb, perhaps not as insane as Jim, has psychological issues, at least. I imagine the Moran household was not the best one to grow up in…

Jim refers to Seb as a hunter earlier on in this fanfic, and he does it again here. This bit is just a reference to Beauty and the Beast and runs along with the theme of fairytales. It's also a paradox with Seb as the hunter (because a hunter hunts the beast – so what does that imply about Seb's character?)

_The next chapter will be called 'Touch', and I have been planning it (even before this chapter weirdly enough). I would ideally like it out by this weekend. In the meantime, feel free to message me! On here or on tumblr. _


	14. Touch

{Chapter 14 – **Touch**} In which they experience what it means to touch someone.

_I envy them. Isn't that the strangest thing? … I know why they grab at each other. To feel. I want to feel._

(from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_, 'Touched', S7/e20)

* * *

><p><em>I'm the only one that makes a sound<em>

_When I know the flame is going down_

_When you say you don't see the red in my eyes,_

_Do you really want to bring the fire outside?_

_(Zola Jesus – Lick the Palm of the Burning Handshake)_

'Time is precious, Detective Inspector,' Mycroft says, a hint of exasperation in his voice. In many ways, he's like his brother.

Lestrade has his hand on his forehead, the remains of a bad cup of coffee, clearly not strong enough, on his tongue. He's in his office behind his desk, tall, pacing, opposite Mycroft, Sherlock, and John.

'I'm aware of that,' Lestrade snaps. 'I just wanted to make sure we all know what's happening. Nothing can go wrong tomorrow. For all our sakes, I'm sure we'd rather not repeat the last three years. It was … difficult, for all of us.'

Sherlock stares at him, head raised. He will not argue, testify, respond – he can hear John's rapid breathing, the slight sweat marks on his frowning forehead, the beginnings of trembling. He doesn't want to worry John.

'You didn't ask to meet us here because you wanted to go over the plan,' Sherlock says quietly. 'Even _you _are competent enough in such procedures…' Lestrade scoffs. 'You brought us all here as a precaution. You want to end everything on a good note, in case things don't go to plan, in case they go wrong. Last time we parted for three years, you were forced to arrest me, against your initial wishes. You don't want that again – it's all over your face, the blasé method you put your tie on this morning (loose), the stain on your shirt (in contrast to your usual precise and professional presentation). Although I suppose I flatter myself. You've also got other things on your mind.'

'I need more coffee…' Lestrade whispers, only because he lost, because Sherlock's right, as always.

He's worried. He's seen things go wrong. Sebastian Moran, while not Moriarty, is almost just as dangerous, just as poisonous and lethal and accurate. These are the thoughts he takes with him on the drive to work, over the spilled tea and scraps of lunch nibbled before twelve in the afternoon, and on his way back home. Home, where the word takes on a whole new level of irony.

It's not home anymore – and to think, Sherlock, of all people – inept in understanding, or so he had thought years ago, emotion – can see it written like a code over his face. John must be a good influence on him…

He feels old, tired, disjointed… His wife is officially his ex-wife, and the mess of the divorce – prolonged much longer than it took him to find out (and for Sherlock to deduce one December night) – because he's good and civil and proper, did everything decent, got a respectable job, a smart and beautiful wife, with the intention of having children because that's what people do.

He thinks once he might have been happy, content, at ease …

Now he's wise enough to know that the years, gone with the absence of a woman's touch he once loved dearly, that perhaps his happiness never really existed.

He snaps out of his thoughts to see Sherlock checking his watch. 'Lestrade, I've got to go. Appointment with Molly at Bart's.'

'Want me to come?' John says, but the question is low, barely audible.

'No … I'll see you back at the flat. I won't be long.'

It's brief, intimate, a steady hand on John's shoulder, a reciprocal nod between the two of them.

Mycroft eyes them, and Lestrade looks at them intently. He gives Sherlock a slight smile and, if he's not mistaken, he's sure he sees Sherlock's mouth twitch, as if to smile back.

_'And yet I always wondered about you two.'_

'_You and John, you've gone through those years, those youthful years of not being sure. Don't make the same mistakes I did. Don't cock it up like I did.'_

He must have taken his advice, Lestrade thinks. Sherlock heads for the door, and John follows soon after.

Mycroft appears tense. 'And you aren't busy yourself?' Lestrade says. 'Haven't you got all the countries in the UN to run or something?'

'It's not too far off from that, I can assure you, when I have to look after Sherlock,' he says, rising from his chair.

'All we can do is hope that Moran doesn't finish Moriarty's twisted web of tales.'

'Not hope, Detective Inspector, _ensure_.' He walks towards the door. 'Good day, Detective Inspector.'

Then Mycroft stops, as if he's forgotten something.

'A government document – on your desk there – wouldn't want to leave without that…' he remembers.

'Don't trust Scotland Yard, then?'

'Do _you_?'

'Point taken.'

It really is mindless small talk, two people engaging in words that come with a sort of tiredness.

And then there's this touch between them, an insignificant brush against their hands, passing a thin document from one person to another.

They stare at each other for a few moments. Why such a tender touch should come within such a formal, distant transaction.

Mycroft's gaze travels towards his hand – was it shaking? And Lestrade's breath – was it rapid?

And then it's over, both of them recede back into themselves: Mycroft, cold, unattached; Lestrade, professional, upright.

'Good day, Detective Inspector.'

'Same to you, Mr Holmes.'

* * *

><p>'Fresh cadaver?'<p>

Molly's head rises at the sound of Sherlock entering the morgue. It's a cold day, and she's staring death in the face so as not to remind her of what must be done tomorrow.

'Yeah,' Molly replies, examining the dead body on the slab. 'You know how it is…Helps me think.'

'You wanted to see me?'

'Yes, I'm surprised you showed … No offense or anything, but you always find things like this sort of pointless, don't you? You seem to be,' she pauses, half-smiling to herself, 'indulging people lately.'

'And what sort of things do I find pointless, Molly?'

His voice is drifting, and she knows well enough that his thoughts are with John and 221b, and the day after this day.

'This. Talking. That's why I brought you here.'

He looks at her sideways with a smile. She settles into a more content mood, in spite of her frantic worry this afternoon. Sherlock needed her once, and now he needs her again.

'I work with the dead, Sherlock,' Molly says, matter-of-factly. 'We work with the dead. It's … sort of automatic. Death never touches us, until it's someone close to us. First it was my dad, you see, then _you_, and watching John … even when I knew you weren't dead. It felt like you really were.'

She looks up into his face, sees the tired lines under his eyes. 'Have talked to you-know-who about this, about tomorrow?'

Sherlock exhales heavily. 'No. We have, in the fashion of all English men, kept quiet about it. Besides, John and I have found other things to occupy us.'

Molly's attention shifts from the cadaver to Sherlock again, and at the moment of recognition of what Sherlock says, what Molly understands, a quick shade of red flushes his cheeks. It fades, and he looks away.

'You know what we plan to do tomorrow.'

'You always say people underestimate me, Sherlock. I still can't quite understand. If you're right, then you underestimated me too.'

'Yes… I confess, perhaps, at one time, I did. Wrongly.'

'You know what he's going to be like, don't you? Sebastian.' She thinks of the Moriarty she first met, Jim from IT, and she can't help but be a little bitter, a little caustic. She is unsettlingly calm and controlled in her tone. 'He's like those big bad wolf stories you read when you're a child, except he's real and there's nothing fantastical about him… Sherlock, I don't want to see you in the morgue, to stand over your body, and know that this time you really are dead.'

Sherlock looks at her. If she's mistaken, he almost looks impressed. 'What does Irene call you? I can see why she's so … interested.'

Molly opens her mouth slightly, awkward, aware of her movements. She doesn't even want to ask how he could have deduced – what did she do to make him realise-?

'She hasn't told me anything,' he says to her. 'But I'll spare you the embarrassment of how I know.'

'She calls me a lionheart … I don't really understand it,' she says, quietly. Clearing her throat, she continues, voice raised a little higher, 'Not that it's any of your business.'

'It isn't,' he smiles. 'I'll see you tomorrow, Molly.'

'I'm capable of taking care of myself, if - if that's what you're thinking!'

'I never suggested any such thing, nor did I was I under the pretence of caring. Just … don't let her hurt you.'

'She won't.'

'Of course not. She'd have to answer to me, and she's well aware of that. Until tomorrow, Molly.'

'Yeah… Until tomorrow, Sherlock.'

And he's gone.

She dreads what deductions he might have made from that, because the truth was that she had been spending more time with Irene and that their relationship – whatever _it_ is – took a different turn yesterday…

It's night, at least that's what she remembers.

Then again, they both sought each other out that night at Irene's house, out of the cold, the dark, and the rain.

She remembers her hair being a mess, and her clothes soaked, and Irene lending Molly her dressing table and fresh attire.

'Thanks,' she mumbles. 'I'm sorry for – bursting in… Not sure why I came.'

Irene gives Molly one of her half-smiles that reminds her of Sherlock.

'I know why you came,' Irene says, her voice trailing. She fumbles with something in one of her cupboards.

'You – you do?' Molly finds herself a little breathless and a little ashamed of herself, yet she cannot figure why.

'You're painfully _human_,' Irene responds, cupping two glasses in her hand and a bottle of wine in the other. 'You haven't learnt what Sherlock and I have.'

'And what's that?'

'How to repress feeling when it gets in the way of a clear head.'

'I'm not sure-'

At that interjection, Irene looks at her curiously. Molly rushes a quick 'Nevermind' and proceeds to gulp at an alarming rate the wine Irene hands her.

'It's not such a bad thing,' Irene says. 'You're sort of…innocent.' Molly laughs nervously, clinging to the glass in her hand. 'Molly, you're thinking too much about tomorrow.'

Suddenly, Molly starts giggling. Irene is slightly startled. 'Drunk already?' she says. 'You're a bit of lightweight, aren't you?'

'No – no, it's not that,' she giggles, her hand on her stomach, catching gasps in between laughing. 'It's just – it's just the funniest thing.' Irene feels as if she's watching Molly come undone. 'D-do you know – Sh-Sherlock and J-John are probably _shagging _as we speak-?'

'_Finally_…'

'-and I haven't – I haven't in a while – I'm so – tomorrow, anything could happen. None of us will say it – and I know we're all thinking about it. And I'm – I'm happy for them, really – I love them – they're like family. I just need to stop – to stop feeling so anxious.'

Molly takes a deep breath, her giggles subsiding. She stops to find Irene watching her, and suddenly the room that was filled with her laughs has a gravitas and seriousness to it.

'You haven't done _what_ in while? The thing you talked about before,' she says, casually, 'you weren't specific.'

'Oh – that was – nothing.'

'Mmm.'

'What do you do to stop you feeling nervous?'

'I don't acknowledge it.'

'OK. What would a sane person do?'

Irene looks at her, laughing. The sound almost surprises her. 'I wouldn't know. I don't exactly lead a sane life.'

'What – what about your clients?'

'It might be obvious what they do to ease their tension.'

'Yes, well… Yeah, I suppose.'

'Molly, if I may be so bold as to ask, why are you here?'

'I don't know what you mean…'

'You visit me regularly.'

'I thought you'd like the company – no, God, sorry, that sounds stupid. I mean, I just thought I'd-'

Irene watches her struggle with her words.

'You're tense. Here, let me,' she says, and Molly isn't prepared for Irene to be so close behind her, for her fingertips to press into her shoulders gently, for her _touch_.

'It's fine, really – it's not – necessary …'

'You feel warm-'

'It's just the room temperature.'

'Is it?' Irene says, and Molly catches the feel of her breath against her ear. 'Don't let them underestimate you tomorrow.'

'I won't,' Molly says firmly.

'I think you'll have to prove it.'

Irene slips her hands away from Molly's shoulders, and this time they're face to face.

'I don't know what you-'

'You do know what I mean. You've been eying the bed behind us, not to mention the questionable glances. You're afraid of taking what you want...'

'I'm not _you_.'

'I don't see why you should be, why you should _want_ to be. Then again, maybe I'm not what you want.'

'You don't know what I want.'

This startles Irene, and she doesn't stop herself from letting Molly closer to her. Placing her hand against Irene's cheek, she leans in for a kiss.

Irene breaks apart. 'I'm not safe.'

'I figured that,' Molly says, surprising herself by how eager she is to interrupt Irene's words with kisses, one after the another, and pressed with a new kind of urgency she had forgotten about in a long time. 'Get on the bed.'

'Wh-what?'

Molly smiles into the kiss. Irene never stutters. 'Do as I say, Irene.'

Her voice isn't harsh or impatient. The thing that undoes Irene is that it's perfectly Molly, in voice, tone, nature – light and calm.

Irene finds her body complying without thinking and, by the time Molly is on top of her, unclothing her, she hasn't the thought to realise that she's the one being dominated, that this woman, so withdrawn, at times hesitant, should be knightly, firm, armouring her upon this very bed.

* * *

><p><em>My Love, leave yourself behind.<em>

_Beat inside me, leave you blind._

_My Love, you have found peace,_

_You were searching for release._

_You gave thoughtfully,_

_Loved me faithfully._

_You taught me honour,_

_You did it for me._

_Tonight, you will sleep for good_

_You will wake for me, my Love._

_(My Love by Sia)_

'I'm rather a bit busy to have this conversation at the moment, John. I'm in the middle of an experiment.'

'By experiment, you mean the one that failed two hours ago and whose contents have caused an utter destruction in the kitchen?'

Sherlock waves his hand. 'It'll come off. Just a simple hydroxide solution… Helps me relax.'

'Experimenting helps you re – no, why am I even surprised by this? Mrs Hudson will kill you.'

'She's seen worse.'

'Anyway … you're still avoiding the subject.' Sherlock gives an exasperated sigh.

'It's pointless to talk about it.'

'It's nice enough when we're going at it – kissing and what not, but whenever it gets serious, you don't want to discuss it. There's no harm in admitting you might be, perhaps, nervous in wanting to-'

'I - don't – get – _nerv_ous.'

'Right. You, nervous? No, 'course not. Not at all like that time down at Baskerville – for God's sake, you were out of your mind, and you're doing exactly what you did then – you're blocking me out. You can be a stubborn git when you want to. Well, I can be _just_ as stubborn.'

'John, come on – let it rest.'

'_Sex_, Sherlock. Say it. Maybe that'll make it easier.'

'I'm not a little child, John. Saying it doesn't frighten me or send me into boyish fits of laughter…'

John looks at him with a caring glint in his eye. Sherlock looks away, nibbling, irate, at his index finger. John's voice softens. 'What is it that frightens you, Sherlock? You might have been reluctant to voice your … issues on the subject, but you've not been shy – well, in bed.'

'I – it's something I've never – John, don't make me say it.'

'I know, I know – it would be, if we were both to consent to this, your first time.'

'Yes…'

'I'm not exactly experienced, either. You're a category of your own, remember?'

Sherlock settles his hands into his favourite prayer-like position, humming in response.

'Tell me what you want,' John says, 'or what you don't want, more importantly. It's important that I know. You understand why?'

'Yes,' Sherlock says.

They're in the living room, the fading sirens in the background, the sun setting behind them.

Sherlock moves close, engulfs John, as he usually does, with his height, resting his head against the doctor's in a quick act of affection. The rest of London outside fails to notice. It is a seal of secrecy of intimacy between the two. John finds himself leaning into Sherlock's breath, breathless at the lazy kiss Sherlock leaves on the pink of his lips.

'When it's time,' John says, 'when we're both ready, we'll know.'

'There are other ways to touch you, John. All you would have to do is,' he pauses, gazing down at John, 'eliminate the inconclusive factors.'

They barely make it to the bedroom.

And thus the conversation is put to rest. This was a fortnight ago, shortly after their visit to Sherlock's family house.

On the day Sherlock leaves Molly at Bart's, deducing the stain of red on the collar of her shirt – lipstick, worn and wrinkled slightly, obviously unchanged from the night before, the languid marks on her necks - increased pressure from lips to flesh - he comes home to John, who has been resting in his bed upstairs.

He's surprised by the tentative knock.

'Sherlock?' he yawns. 'Didn't even realised I drifted off.'

'You'll need your rest.'

'Doctor's orders, is it?' John smiles, sitting up.

Sherlock closes the door, takes off his coat and places it on the chair, looks up at John.

'Are you alright? You rarely come up here.'

Sherlock, walking towards the bed, says, 'May I?'

And John pats the empty space in his bed. Sherlock lies next to him, so child-like, with his mass of floppy curls and half-buttoned shirt, his hands neatly folded on his chest. He's been thinking.

For a couple of moments the only sound is Sherlock's contemplative breathing.

'So…' John begins, 'Tomorrow.'

'Yes,' Sherlock says, his voice suddenly shaky. 'I have been thinking-'

'Not that you do that often…'

'-it would be best if you were elsewhere tomorrow. Not in the midst of … events.'

'You've got to be kidding me.'

'I wouldn't want – I would rather rule out all the possibilities of anything happening to you, John.'

'_Sherlock_-'

'I don't think you quite understand.'

'I would say the same thing to you, Sherlock,' John says, facing him. Sherlock tilts himself towards John, and John's surprised to see water forming in the other man's eyes. 'Sherlock, are you – are those tears?'

'I hope you're happy to see what you've reduced me to… If anything should happen to you-'

'Nothing's going to-'

'No, John, please…' This breaks John. Sherlock's voice reminds him of the day he fell from Bart's. 'Let me explain first.'

'OK,' John breathes, 'fine… Explain, Sherlock.'

'The three years I've been separated from you … I thought previously I would be able to handle it. You were only ever meant to be an acquaintance, a flatmate. How was I to know that taking that fall would rip my very self apart? I caused you a lot of pain. How could I do that again?'

'Sherlock…' John says, brushing away the stray curls from Sherlock's hair. 'I've always chosen to be by your side. Danger or no danger, it's who I am. I would be here to help you, whether we were just good mates or … more. It may sound silly, but I think either way we were always meant to end up like this … forget the kissing and the more intimate things … I mean, being together, two halves.'

'Sentiment can disappoint.'

'Everything can. You can't fear everything in this world.'

Sherlock smiles at him. 'Still the soldier, John … my dear John.'

There's a couple moments of silence between them, until Sherlock speaks again. 'You told me … not long ago … that when we were both ready…'

John gives him a questioning look. 'Yes… wha – Sherlock, are you suggesting what I think you are?'

'We've been conducting research…'

'Well, _yes_, if you must put it that way.'

'We've got the necessary tools … in this room, in fact.'

'Bloody hell.'

'John … I – I want to – I'm ready.'

'Are you – are you sure? We don't have to do anything until you're ready.'

'Are _you_ ready?'

John fumbles a bit, until Sherlock looks at him earnestly, and he splutters out a, 'Oh, God, yes.'

They meet with kisses, quick, desperate, fierce. 'I don't want you to be right about tomorrow,' John says, in between kisses, the breath of his body leaving him, 'It won't be right. It'll be fine. It has to be.'

They're eager, taking each other's clothes off, piece by piece. John wants to laugh at the irony of it all, Sherlock, the man who fixed him and found him his home _here_, now threatening to kiss the air out of his lungs, burst the blood out of his veins, with the nimble movement of his hands on his chest, abdomen, thigh, to bring the beginning and end of everything onto the familiarity of this bed.

Sherlock appears smooth with his movements, his kissing, his fingers deftly in John's hair, because it feels right – though his pulse at times, rapid, gives him away. The nakedness of it all makes them vulnerable and more open than before.

His mind blurs – John's hands wanders further down his body and in between his legs, and it's as if he's moved out of his being. There is nothing except John in this world.

'Tell me what you'd like,' John says, 'just like before.' Caring, gentle, but precise with his hands, with the same frightening accuracy that he attends to bodies, alive, living, dead, doctoring Sherlock's pulse, the intricate movements of his heart, the muscles that stretch, contract, release –

He's alive, he's bloody alive, _not dead_, not on the floor. He's breathing, pulsing, living in John's arms.

'Anything, John.' Because he's frustrated and in awe and amazed at how this man, wrongly diagnosed as 'ordinary' to world, can stop his mind, control his body (for which he always has control over, has no need for relief, for the exercise of emotion, love, desire in his limbs). 'I trust you.'

Although his speech is cut short by the feel of John's mouth in a place it's never been, and he thinks, quite irrationally, that he's cried out something incoherent.

'Please, John-'

Begging. He never begs, and yet, looking at the delicate and faint strokes John elicits with his mouth, reddening, his hands steadying Sherlock's hips, he'd readily give up himself again and again, the secure parts of his body – graceful, controlled, fixed – for the absolute inelegance of his thin, pale limbs at this very moment, gripping the bedpost, at the mercy of the man he loves.

John stops, much to Sherlock's annoyance, who finds himself so dependent on the other man's touch. Indeed, as John settles himself on top of Sherlock, caresses his now reddened cheeks, heated from arousal, John feels as if he is touching, and being touched, for the first time in his life.

He feels as if, all the others he's touched, unnameable and nameable remain significant, there, present, but ultimately eclipsed by this tall, strange, beautiful, mad man, who infuriates him, enthrals him, this man who can see right through him.

'I want us to feel this together,' he says, gently. 'If you want me to-'

'Yes,' Sherlock says, quickly, 'Lubrication. Top shelve. Quickly. _Please_.'

'How did you know – you impossible man…'

Sherlock smiles at him, cups his cheeks, kisses him.

And when John does finally move into him, their sighs, conjoined, instant, soften, as if the life they have just breathed into each other has suddenly gone by the shock of such a corporeal and bodily connection.

Sherlock feels himself at peace, slipping away, under John's heavy breathing, his flesh falling into him.

John is electric, all movements and memories of the physical and the intimate, completely erased by this unpredicted moment, at each thrust and every moan, inclining his head backwards, the pressure and sensation of Sherlock blinding him.

To Sherlock, John's touch medicates him, exceeds all expectations where the rest of world, he deems, falls short. John, his John, with loyalty in his heart and honour in his worn hands.

And to John, Sherlock's touch compels him beyond all he thought he ever was and this no longer scares him. It is the very thing that grounds him, brings them both back down to earth. Sherlock, his Sherlock, with brilliance in the pulsing synapses of his brain, devotion readable, and only for him, in his eyes, dilated, letting the light and John in.

This is one body he is sworn to protect and take care of.

They collapse onto each other. John watches Sherlock's smile, fading into sleep as if forever.

* * *

><p>Notes: Thank you, firstly, all of your lovely reviews! This chapter was originally inspired by an old episode of <em>Buffy<em> I watched a while ago. Interesting how people touch each other when they fear loss and destruction.

I have a fleet of ships sailing in this chapter – that wasn't intentional at first. Read what you will into Mystrade and Molrene (is that their shipping name?) because, in this fanfic, they are mutable and changeable – the only fixed ship, in this, is Johnlock, purposefully because they are the main characters of this story. I wanted you guys, however, to decide what you will on the relationships between other characters. Funniest thing was that I don't even ship Mycroft and Lestrade, and then I wrote that little scene and was surprised with all the _potential _that they had with just a touch.

Molly is referred to as a Lionheart again. Anyone who doesn't know, though you probably do, Richard the lionheart, or so he's dubbed, was a famous King. There's no link between these two figures, I just liked the term Lionheart because it sounds knightly and courageous – and most people think these two things are the very opposite of Molly. This will be important in the next chapter, so I found it important for Molly to find this side of herself that others underestimate. After all, she's smart and works with the dead for a living – she is anything but ordinary.

I didn't go into too much physical detail about Sherlock and John's first time – mostly because smut is damn hard to right well, and also because I wanted to set a balance between the sexual and the intimate, which – while similar – can be two different things at the same time. I wanted to really emphasise touch and the fact that these two men are letting themselves become extremely vulnerable by taking such a forward and important step in their relationship.

Next chapter will be the 'conflict' chapter of the story, in which everything leading up that point will hopefully manifest itself into some sort of action. In short, Sebastian is out for blood. Not many chapters left to go, I'm afraid. I am thinking of doing a series to this, but if I do, it won't be for awhile. xxx


	15. A Good Woman Goes to War

Notes: Title refers to Molly, but I'm aware that it's not just her who goes to war, so to speak! It's taken from a Doctor Who episode, whose original title is A Good Man Goes to War – which I have yet to watch.

I chose Lana del Rey's song's here as well as Imogen Heap's, which I recommend to you all. The song Seb plays on the old record player is by Edith Piaf and it's called 'La vie en rose'. For some reason I was listening to the song and thought that it should go in this scene. Thanks for your wonderful reviews! This one gets a little angsty - I probably have a list of characters to apologise to. I wonder if this is how Moffat feels? ;P

{Chapter 15 – **A Good Woman Goes to War**} In which there is an empty house.

_Choose your last words_

_This is the last time_

'_Cause you and I,_

_We were born to die_

_**(Lana del Rey – Born to Die)**_

_Oh, sweet sleepless tumbling night_

_Oh, and the morning on your skin and the loved up light_

_Tracing patterns in the maze of your back_

_Softly, softly, the goosebumps like that_

_And then a kiss, maybe another and another one._

_(Imogen Heap – Between the Sheets)_

There were no words between them that morning. Noiseless bliss fills their bedroom, the closing spaces between their lips, and the morning is on their skin, fair and burning with the heat of last night. John looks up at Sherlock, who settles himself on top of John, smiles down at him, the sunlight turning his eyes pale. John is content, the warmth of another radiating through him, between the nakedness of his body and Sherlock's between the sheets. He lets out a small laugh.

'Good morning,' John smiles.

'Good, indeed,' Sherlock responds, nestling his long neck and head of curls into John's embrace, tracing kisses lightly on his skin.

'It's _that_ day today, isn't it?' John says, the smile slipping from his face.

'Yes,' Sherlock says, kissing his mouth, with more desperateness, a willingness to become lost, like last night, in the person he loves and does not want to lose.

They break apart, and John fingers a curl of Sherlock's hair. 'We should get dressed,' John says, breathless because Sherlock is nibbling on the sensitive part of his left shoulder, planting kisses, observing, touching, studying.

'Hmm…in a minute.'

'We'll have more days to come after this one to … stay in bed for as long as we want,' John says, grinning up at him. He kisses him again, and Sherlock looks weary. 'I promise.'

Sherlock's phone buzzes, and John passes it from the side table to him.

_I'm clear. He hasn't sent me any cryptic messages or rhymes. He's sent them so far to Irene, John, Lestrade, even Mycroft. Thought you should know. It should all go to plan._

_Molly_

The phone buzzes again.

_Hopefully._

_Molly_

The kitchen and living room is empty, and John takes the time to make tea and steal kisses from Sherlock.

Sherlock reacts to these kisses, plucking them one after another, as if his body, ignoring for once his mind, is able to disregard the oncoming day.

They're too busy clawing into each other's grasp, mouth to mouth, and breathing new life into their lungs, to notice someone has come into the room.

'Oh, don't mind me! I'll let you get some privacy in a minute,' Mrs Hudson sighs. 'I just came up to make sure you had the mannequin here, Sherlock.'

'Ah – hmm, yes,' Sherlock says, who has turned a shade of red. 'It's over there. Everything's in order.'

'How – how long did you know?' John stammers.

'Oh, really long ago, although the noise from last night could have given it away to the neighbours, that's for sure,' she says, waving the topic away with her hand. 'Just make sure you both survive so that you can have many more moments like this – though perhaps not in the kitchen…'

John finds himself giggling. He is about to face danger, at the hands of man who's boss had, despite his best efforts to be brave, made him quiver. Fear of what he did, fear of what he could do…

But for now, at least their normality – of Sherlock completely flustered by emotion and feeling, of John making tea in the early hours of the morning light, of Mrs Hudson fussing over her 'boys' – these moments returned to them, and he didn't want to think about them leaving him. This is his home, their home.

Sebastian has his hair pushed back the way he usually likes it, and the feel of a gun strapped to his chest. The rifle waits for him at the empty house on Siddons Lane. There's a gust of wind in the air, and ordinary people fill the streets of London around him, stories he can hear, conversations, self-motivated interests, all humming around him. What will happen can never involve them. As far as Seb is concerned, they are minor characters, like the parts of play he can cut out and stick somewhere else.

His mood is light, easy. He catches the breath in his lungs, lives.

Someone knocks into him.

'Oh – I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry – didn't see you there!'

A woman. Medium height. Familiar-looking. Surprisingly attractive. Yes … she is familiar. He recalls her face at one of his favourite clubs, the usual near Park Lane, _yes_ – the girl with the red lips, the smell of Chanel, more likely an expense borrowed by another (as it always is in the kind of clubs he could only afford to frequent now), hair aflame with colour under a lamp, like the mane of a lion.

'You – you look familiar,' Seb says. He's caught off guard.

'So do you – I think – _yes_, we talked at the Mayfair Club!'

'Ah, yes… we did. I remember now.'

He's suddenly sweaty. Social interaction. A distraction from the main job.

'You left earlier than I thought you would,' the woman smiles. 'Thought maybe we could meet up later for drinks…'

'I-' He starts and stops.

Uncertainty. That's not the trait of a soldier, a hunter, a killer. That's what he is, he's accepted it, doesn't want anything else.

'Look, I'm a bit busy-'

'Oh, we're all busy! Please,' she says, her eyes shining, her hands clasped together.

'Yeah – whatever. I've got to go.'

'Wait-' she calls. She embraces him, caresses the slither of bare skin around his neck, agonisingly slow, and it makes him catch his breath… He forgot what a touch can feel like, and perhaps if he wasn't so engaged he could have found the time for –

She kisses his cheek. Gives him a quick wink. 'See you later then – I never got to catch your name earlier.'

What difference does it make? 'People call me Seb.'

'I'm Molly.'

And that was that. Molly – a common, unassuming name and one that Seb quickly forgets as he makes his way towards Siddons Lane.

Meanwhile, the woman named Molly walks in the opposite direction on the street, now only occupied by a couple of dawdlers. She casually takes her hideously loud and colourful top off, revealing a clean shirt, takes the large hoop earrings from her ears, folds her hair back into a ponytail. She starts to feel a little more like the Molly Hooper she's beginning to like, to tolerate, to forgive. She takes out her phone and sends a message.

_I've hidden the GPS chip under his jumper, just above his gun. You should be picking up a signal now._

Molly

_Brilliant, Molly – as always, Sherlock tells me. The Scotland Yard team are on it. I'll forward this to Mycroft._

GL

She walks further, until her phone beeps again.

_Don't bother. I watched Molly's technique. Clever, if I do say so myself. What makes him think he doesn't know you from your - how shall I word it - unknown escapades with his boss?_

MH

She smiles to herself, looks up into the street camera in which she knows Mycroft is most likely watching her and texts:

_He won't know. Moriarty was the very opposite of his true character when he was with me. He might have been close to Seb, but he would never reveal that he had the capacity to play 'boyfriends and girlfriends'. He's not supposed to be capable of feeling. That's not the way Seb remembers and loves him._

Molly

_No matter how hard you try, a disguise is always a portrait of oneself. P.S – Please be careful, Molly._

IA

Her phone beeps again, and she smiles at the message.

_Oh before you ask, I infiltrated Mycroft's messaging system. Well, one of them anyway. My number should be untraceable. Now go and be a lionheart, Molly. After all, I think there's enough evidence to prove you've been hiding your … talents._

IA

It's enough to make her blush.

_Yes … well. Thanks for the Chanel borrow. I'll see you soon._

Molly

Mrs. Hudson has just placed the dummy in position at 11:02 a.m., fussing with the rollers in her hair, her fingers twitching – signs, as Sherlock studies, of wanting a cigarette because her nerves are getting the better of her – she's traced it several times, hands in the air, quickening her pace.

She disappears out of sight, and only the mannequin, suited and still, appears in the dark of the flat, all the lights turned off, the sunlight blocked out.

He feels for John's hands in the darkness, perspiring with fear and adrenaline charging through his bloodstream.

There are footsteps. Sherlock puts a finger to his lips, the damp and empty house, in which they could see their flat across the road, now occupied by the man who is out for blood.

John appears as if he's holding his breath. He looks into the darkness, the corner opposite, as if to look for Lestrade, who is there, waiting, armed.

Sebastian launches himself into the highest room in the empty house as if he's going into his office at a nine to five job.

Here we are, again, he thinks to himself. Just doing the job, the boss's job, except his is gone.

He switches on the old, and quite frankly wrecked, gramophone, most likely discarded from the previously owners – the last person recorded to have lived in the house was at the end of Second World War.

He rolls his head back, listens to the old record he's left there for some time now, the one he always played when in practice. It scratches, pauses every once and a while, but he likes it that way. Occasionally, he can understand bits of the French drawled hazily out from the record player.

_Eyes that gaze into mine, a smile that is lost on his lips._

His breath rises and falls at the swelling of the orchestra behind the voice.

_That is the untouched portrait of the man to whom I belong._

He unclenches his fist, stretches, feels the rifle in his hands like a lover, aims.

He doesn't shoot just quite yet, smiling. 'Do you why I picked you all out like fairytale characters?' he says, very low and under his breath.

John tenses, and Sherlock steadies him. Seb appears to be talking to himself.

'I always find it funny, that in your story Jim and I are villains,' he starts.

_He tells me words of love, words of every day._

'When, really, we're not the ones who lie to each other. You do it, everyday. Did you tell him it's all going to be fine, Sherlock? I'm interested. I'd like to know…'

Sherlock catches his breath, feels John cling to his sleeve.

_It's he for me and I for him, throughout life._

'Of course you knew I'd know. God forbid, I'm _ordinary_, I don't possess the genius that you have, that my boss had… But I know bodies. Your doctor there mends them, and I stop them from working.'

_He has told me, he has sworn to me, for life._

Before he can reach the door, he's disarmed by Lestrade, who is not swift enough to block his exit.

Sherlock feels John's weight leaves him. 'John, no! This is between Sebastian and I – leave it.'

'Not when he's after you. It's become my business. It involves _me_.'

And John runs out of the house, following Sebastian's trail, Lestrade, the Police, and Sherlock – whose heart wants to burst out of his body – behind them.

'Funny things – geniuses,' Seb laughs, the wind catching his coat, ruffling his hair, and he looks manic, reckless. 'We always want them to prove that we're more than ordinary.'

All rationality leaves John Watson's body. The only thing he can see is a man that has threatened to take his Sherlock away from him again, and that he will do anything to stop this.

He doesn't even realise he's chasing Seb through Marylebone.

'My Tin Soldier – knew you'd come running, just like Jim said. You always do! Who says you're any different to me? Look at you, hunting me down. You're a killer! What's the difference? I killed for Jim, and you killed for Sherlock.'

'Shut – _up_!'

They're both pushing past people, the crowds thinning and parting, shifting themselves out of the way, and the police running behind.

Sherlock's lungs heave with the London air, running after John.

'Brilliant minds,' Seb stops, 'they always have a way of leaving you. I must admit, I thought he would have been done with you by now. Or you him. Fascinating how a bullet can reverse this.' He reaches inside his coat and aims a small gun at John, the one item Lestrade missed.

John's shaking, but so is Seb. 'Do it, I know you're armed, aim your gun at me,' Seb says.

'Wh-what?'

'I said _do it_! You're no better than me! Look at me and tell me you don't see the man that you _really_hate - Moriarty.'

John grips his gun. 'I don't _kill_ people. I defend them. I'm not like you.'

'Right then. Self-defence it is,' Seb says, assured, and shoots.

'NO!' Sherlock voice grips the air. He's barely perceptive to the fact that Sebastian has also fallen by John's gun.

He rushes over to him, cradles him. John, looking up at him, all the blood forming a pool around his body – is this the horror he left John of his dead body all those years ago?

'John-'

'I – I'm shot-'

Sherlock wills his brain to focus – to – oh, for God's sake, save John Watson, the person he loves – forces all the scientific knowledge applicable to this situation – to depersonalise it – gun shot wound, tear through the muscle of the abdomen, 70 per cent chance of serious damage – or was it 80? _Prostaglandins, Serotonin; body most likely in a state of hyperalgesia._

But he can't – he can't detached himself – can't think -

His mind shuts down.

'Oh, you idiot, you idiot,' Sherlock whispers, 'I never should have – I should have been the one.'

'No,' is all John manages to choke out.

Lestrade is cursing in the background. Not again, he's thinking. Heaven help him, not again. There's the sound of sirens in the background, rising and falling like the sound of the woman's voice on the gramophone.

'It – it'll be fine,' Sherlock says.

'Don't tell me that,' John laughs, wincing.

'What – what do you want me to tell you?' His vision blurry with that human condition he unfortunately knows only too well. 'Anything. I'll tell you anything.'

'Tell me something real – no – no fairytales.'

'I – yes – OK-' He's sobbing without realising. 'There was … once a man, and lots of stupid people called him a freak and a psychopath. He never cared for people. Quite right. Emotions always dulled the brain, and that's what this man valued the most. Then he meets someone whom he didn't think much of at first, someone who made an unobtrusive flatmate, but who – suddenly – found himself welcomed into this man's work and life until he realised how did he possible live before this army doctor came along… No one ever stays in his life that long, not that he wants them to. But this person, this Dr. John Watson, who wears hideous jumpers and every so often falls victim to his flatmate's drugged tea, he _has_ to stay. I couldn't – he wouldn't be able to go on without him. Oh, God, please _live_.'

Pulse. Still there, still coursing. Sherlock is the very last thing John sees before he loses consciousness.


	16. The Aftermath of John

{Chapter 16 –** The Aftermath of John**}In which Sherlock recollects what happened after his fall from Bart's, and John remembers, in his semi-unconscious state, remnants of his _life._

'_You've got to feel the pain before you can mend it. Medicine. That's all it is, it seems.'_

* * *

><p><em>I'm about to lose my mind<em>

_You've been gone for so long__  
><em>_I'm running out of time__  
><em>_I need a doctor__  
><em>_Call me a doctor__  
><em>_I need a doctor, doctor__  
><em>_To bring me back to life_

_**(Skylar Grey – I Need A Doctor)**_

_Safety net don't hold me now  
>In this hole I've fallen down<br>Secret home I've made and found  
>A new way to breathe<em>

Skin come off  
>Skin come off<br>I've had enough,  
>Skin come off<p>

And in the sickness,  
>You have faith<br>And in the thickness,  
>You'll find me<br>Finally

In the city, you find pain  
>And the people you see there<br>That remind you of your own  
>Let it go<p>

_**(Zola Jesus – Skin)**_

* * *

><p>'I've just been informed that Sebastian Moran has been shot – a result of John Watson's quick reaction,' Mycroft says, unsure of himself, unsure how to proceed. John is opposite him on the bed, unconscious, and Sherlock is unusually taciturn, sitting in a chair, staring at the wall.<p>

'I've contacted Harriet Watson and John's father… Mrs Hudson's been informed, but she's – been crying.'

Sherlock raises his hand and Mycroft stops speaking.

Suddenly, Sherlock breaks, the tears coming so thickly that his vision is blurred and his eyes sting. He's like, Mycroft thinks, the little 5-year-old boy he once was, crying at the sight of a small cut on his knee … except the circumstances now differs, and he's older, and the wound this time, much more distressing: his heart, his John.

Mycroft walks towards his brother, the careful movements of this governmental figure, who can start and stop wars, becoming less sure. He hasn't done this in years, Sherlock's never allowed it, and neither has he.

_Caring is not an advantage._

He feels the cruel words spitting back into his mind. He never wished for this. He warned Sherlock. And he looks down at his brother, a lump in his throat, and wants to take the burden of _caring_, once more, away … because, of course, it hurts. It always did.

With one precise, quick movement, Mycroft envelops Sherlock into his arms, the dampness of tears soiling his suit.

Molly hovers in the distance, bodies and pain and death (oh God, she hoped not) too close and too real. She keeps her space, waits unless Sherlock needs her. She watches the two brothers embrace, a sight John would think impossible.

She catches Sherlock's eyes, and the two stare at each other, as if in some sort of recognition.

And Sherlock remembers the same feeling of desolation after his fall from Bart's.

* * *

><p>His ears ring with the traffic of streets he has just, supposedly, fallen onto, the searing shock of words bruising his hearing…<p>

_Keep your eyes fixed on me._

His breathing is quick, in short, heaving bursts. The white walls of an anonymous lab inside Bart's, blinding. Molly's small figure blurs in front of him. She holds out a glass of clear water. Everything feels, looks, smells, sterile. He supposes he has stripped himself of something. _John._

_I'm leaving a note. That's what people do, don't they?_

Something wet is on his skin – the running tears now dried with fake blood.

'Towel … please, Molly.'

'Of course.'

She dampens a small towel under the metal taps, hand it delicately to Sherlock. He wipes himself, Molly watching him with a sort of pity. There's a moment when his sharp eyes turn to her and she has to look away, no longer in shame or embarrassment, the office crush of her past come to plague her no more, but because she cannot quite comprehend this man in front of her, who once seemed so much more than human, and who now appears horrifically less so.

'You're reacting more strongly than you previously calculated…' she says, suddenly.

Sherlock looks directly at her, his lips parted slightly. He's shocked. He moves, as if to speak, but merely mumbles, 'Cigerette. I need – I want a-'

'Of course,' she says, simply, taking out a packet from the inside pocket of her lab coat.

'You're not going to stop me from having one?'

'I got these last night. And no, I'm not going to stop you. If this one time it can relax you, then by all means, take one. I'm not sure when you'll get another chance to relax again.'

He laughs, bitter. 'Not in three years, I suspect. But now I believe it's not because of the reasons I first thought it would be.'

He lights a cigarette, inhales, exhales.

'Because of him.'

'I'm – excuse me?'

'Well… you said, "but now I believe it's not because of the reasons I first thought". You thought before you wouldn't rest because of travelling, hiding and so forth. But now it's because of _him_, because you'll be thinking of John.'

Sherlock smokes his cigarette with more vigour than before.

'Are you going to contact anyone?' Molly asks. 'What about – that woman - The Woman, you used to call her?'

'No-'

'You were telling me about her before today, and she seems smart enough – smart enough to have faked her own death – perhaps she could-'

'Molly, _no_.' The words come full of anger. 'I'm sorry – I can't-' He breathes heavily. 'I'm not really for contacting anyone at this precise moment. I have something on my mind, and I am trying to – at least temporarily – forget it.'

'But you can't,' she responds quietly.

He sighs at her, thumbing the temples of his head.

_Damn her_. Smart, intelligent, fumbling Molly, who everyone knows nothing about, and who knows everything about them.

'Do you love him?' she says.

The question genuinely puzzles him.

She's expecting an insult, a snide remark, or a resounding silence, either way, she can handle it. This is Sherlock Holmes, after all – the only difference is that this time he's shattered, bloodied, and very much prone to snapping because he cannot handle the flood of his unexpected emotions.

'I don't understand what you mean by … 'love',' he says, surprising himself. Molly is amused that he utters love as if it's a specimen to be studied under a microscope.

She smiles at him lightly, walking towards the door. 'I'll just be a minute.'

'Will it hurt?' he says, he voice breaking.

She turns around.

'Will it hurt if you have to be separated from someone you … someone you-? Forgive me, I have no knowledge about such things.'

She's not sure how to answer such a question, such a child-like question from the man who can intimidate or impress with so much as a glance and a word.

Of course.

Of course it will hurt. It hurt when she realised Sherlock can never think of her the way she wants him to. Now that Sherlock is discovering those untapped parts of himself, the parts he so confidently thought were non-existent, how can she _tell him_?

She decides to stay silent, walks towards him, hesitates, embraces him.

She feels his limbs, one by one, unfreeze, as if unused to an embrace, more confident with a cadaver or a case, and not to another's touch.

'Molly, I think I love him.'

'I know you do.'

'Molly … I'm frightened.'

'I know.'

* * *

><p><em>There's dust in his eyes. The Helmond Province stings him back into existence, and he can just about see his men in the distance – he's falling a little behind.<em>

John stirs in his sleep, the light from the early morning emptying itself out into his bedroom. It lights the buds of sweat on his face.

_He walks onwards, and it's not long before he hears an attack, the pierce of gunshots shifting through air – and bodies – falling to the ground. _

_His breathing's quick, he's steadied his gun to his hands, like an honest soldier, though his fear, he worries, will betray him. He's still fairly young, and this is no longer his first taste of war._

_But he hasn't quite expected this, such a scene to materialise, the bullets hitting flesh with such a thud and crack before his eyes._

_His breath catches. Another man falls. He talked to him, properly, last Tuesday – or was it Thursday? – all groggy from training and intent on a pint or two. John startles, the blood gargling from the dead man's mouths, moves on, because he has to. _

He wakes sharply, breathing through the moist air of his sweat, pushes his head back on the bed, and willing himself to be that honest soldier again, resilient, independent, unstained by tears.

His mornings appear to always start like this.

Later in the day, Sarah sits opposite John in a corner of a pub, not to far from the place John currently rents.

'So … you haven't been back-'

'No,' John says, cutting Sarah off, 'not there. No need, really.'

They both know what's on their minds, the very place John does not want to think about: 221B

He takes a swig of his pint. 'How are things?'

Sarah stares at him, watching John as he changes the subject, determined. It's been roughly five months since Sherlock's death, although, in John's head, it's been five months, one week, and three hours and 27 minutes since he watched his best mate fall and dash out his brains on the cold concrete pavement, the same one they used to walk on towards Bart's.

Sarah exhales, 'They're fine. Everything's … fine. You know, whenever you're ready, the surgery will gladly welcome you back. I just want you to know there's no rush…'

'Yep, that's great. That's good.' He takes another gulp of his drink, his eyes drifting off somewhere else.

'Yes, yes, it is,' and now the atmosphere has turned silent and awkward.

'John, I know you don't want to talk about it.'

'I don't.'

'But you can't avoid it for ever – what's happened. It's – it's obviously affected you, and maybe it would help if-'

'If I talked about it?'

'Yes, I think so.'

John shakes his head, laughing bitterly. 'No. I've had enough dreams – I barely sleep – they're all so bizarre and mangled, so that every time I close my eyes it's either the war or _him _I see. And I-' his voice breaks, 'cannot possibly understand how you think _talking_ about it could help. God, in what bloody world?' He pauses. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-'

'Hey – no apologies today. I understand.'

He clears his throat. 'Thank you… Maybe I'll take your offer on that job. I think it would be good to start work again...'

'Hmm. And – anywhere else?' John looks puzzled. 'The Yard's been – well, they've been awfully quiet.'

'Lestrade's been trying to … convince me to come back. I'll stick with the surgery, fixing people and what not.'

'You loved him, didn't you?' she says, suddenly.

John looks up at her, wrecked. 'Sarah, I appreciate what you're trying to do … but I've had enough of this from my therapist.'

She looks at him sympathetically. 'Love is complex. But it was simple enough to see when we were dating where you're head and heart was. They weren't with me, and I've no qualms about it, really,' she says, putting her hands up. 'At the time, I was bitter about it, but that faded. Especially when I realised what you both had. You worked well together.'

'What are you suggesting?'

'Nothing, John. I just think – maybe there are things you have to talk about instead of pushing them to one side.'

'But,' John pauses, sighing, 'will it – will it hurt to remember? God, I can't, Sarah…'

She puts her hand on his, giving a little comforting squeeze. 'Come on – pub's getting rowdy. I've got work tomorrow, and I think you could do with some rest. Let me give you a lift home.'

'Yeah … alright.'

They head out onto the streets and into the night. John doesn't look out much these days, attempts purposely not to observe, notice, remember, in case he sees the various ghosts of Sherlock walking London, speaking in the mouths of people, seeing in the eyes of observers. Sherlock's ghost fills the content of the city they shared together, converses with strangers, puts on their hasty movements.

Sarah drops him off at his flat, a similar, if dingy, space to the one he rented before on his army pension.

'Thanks for the lift, Sarah.'

They're outside. John is unsure of himself – he's not sure if he's swaying, if it's the couple of pints he's downed, if it's the quickening of night under him – but he's leaning forward.

Sarah, Sarah – familiar, comforting, _there_.

He doesn't understand this sudden need to kiss her.

She breaks away.

'Sorry – please, I just-'

'John, I'm not the solution.'

'Please – please, it would be easier. Sarah, it _hurts_.'

He's sobbing, and Sarah embraces him, pity potent in her gentle strokes. 'It has to hurt. You know it, you've always known it. You, above everybody else, knows what happens when your body is hurt. You've got to feel the pain before you can mend it. Medicine. That's all it is, it seems.' She pats him on the back, her clothes soaked with his tears. But she doesn't care. She's fiercely determined to hold him, comfort him, but as a good friend.

'Let me stay with you tonight,' she offers, 'I'll sleep on your sofa.'

'It's mingy.'

'I've slept on worse.'

He giggles through his tears. 'Oh, I need tea. I think I'm going to be sick.'

'Just like our dates back in the day, ay? You being sick, me holding your hair back.'

They smile at each other. For a split second, he's fine. It is only when he remembers his loss that the smile slips from him, and Sarah understands. She links her hand with his, leads him into his flat.

Tonight is going to be a long, painful night.

'Do you ever think – you ever think I'll – find someone?'

'Of course. I know you will.'

* * *

><p>It's quiet in the ward. And his brain is mad with thinking, observing useless detail to distract his mind from John, all too frighteningly still and immobile, scrutinising signs of consciousness – the slight movement of a finger, the flickering of eyelids, the increase in pulse.<p>

John rouses, breathes deeply, opens his eyes, crinkled in a second from the brightness of the hospital lights. His first sight is a very much dilapidated and child-like Sherlock, biting his lip, anxious and desolate.

John smiles at him weakly, eyes tired, wincing.

'Hello, Sherlock,' he says.

Sherlock takes his hand in his, a pang of affection and relief rushing into his lungs. He is intent of fixing his John, on making him better, on mending what has been broken.

'Hello, John.'

* * *

><p>Notes: A couple of stuff in here inspired by a line in The Winter's Tale (mostly the grief scene where John sees Sherlock everywhere)<p>

Two scenes parallel each other - conversations between Molly and Sherlock after the fall and Sarah and John about five months after the fall.

I really liked the scene between Sarah and John - I felt John, while strong, would be forgiven for lapsing a little. He feels like part of him is dead.

Any who, this is the penultimate chapter. I'm going off abroad for a couple of days, coming back to write the last chapter on Monday/Tuesday, then I'm off again for longer. xxx


	17. Between Two Lungs

Notes: Last chapter and conclusion to this story! Can't believe it's done. Thanks to everyone for reading and supporting this fanfic – you guys have spurred me on. There might be a sequel to this, but not for some time – although I am thinking of doing a fanfic for Merlin, if anyone's interested in the show (I love it!). An important character from the Sherlock Holmes Canon is mentioned in here, and definitely not human.

Yay! Enjoy! (I will be away for under a month, just to let you guys know!) Also, if there are any typos, I apologise! I've been so busy this wk!

* * *

><p>{Chapter 17 – <strong>Between Two Lungs<strong>}

_Gone are all the days of begging  
>The days of theft<br>No more gasping for a breath  
>The air filled me head to toe<br>And I can see the ground far below  
>I have this breathe and I hold it tight<br>And I keep it in my chest with all my might  
>I pray to god this breath will last<br>As it pushes past my lips as I...  
>Gasp<em>

(Florence and The Machine – Between Two Lungs)

* * *

><p>'Sherlock, I'm fine, <em>really<em>. It's been four months since I got shot – three months since I was released from hospital – I'm good, promise -'

Sherlock quiets him with shoving an alarming amount of toast on jam into his mouth, steadying a mug of tea in the other hand.

'You don't need to feed me,' John says, half-giggling, half-choking. 'God, I ought to get shot more often if you're like this.'

It's a joke, but Sherlock's face darkens. John places his hands up in protest. 'I'm sorry – was only joking. I know how much distress I caused you… But you've got to give me some credit, Sherlock. I'm a soldier. I lay down my life. It's a vulnerable occupation, and you are – of all people – aren't exempt from that. My first thought, waking and seeing you in the hospital, was that you were OK.'

Sherlock gives him a half-smile. They're at 221B, and it's nearing winter, the light from the streetlamps flickering. The fire inside roars, and John sits by it, contemplating the man he loved so dearly in front of him.

'Go to sleep, Sherlock. It looks like you haven't slept in months.'

'I haven't.'

'I know,' he says, sympathetically, beckoning Sherlock with a finger. Sherlock finds himself pulled towards John, as if by some other unknown force. And there is a understanding, a look between them, in that moment: that they both know only John can beckon Sherlock, and only Sherlock would come to him.

Sherlock leans himself into John on the chair, his unruly mass of curls catching the sparks of light from the fireplace with brilliance and wonder, and the familiarity of intimacy makes him tingle. All the weeks of worrying, of not having his John whole, now fades, and somehow the feeling of John combing his fingers through his hair (he had a subconscious habit of doing so), Sherlock can breathe, allow himself to fall asleep.

'Where's Gladstone?' he hears John say.

He answers sleepily, 'Mmph … Certainly not allowed in my lab anymore.'

'You mean the kitchen?'

'Precisely.'

'What's our pup ever done to you? After all, you got him for me, remember?'

'I remembered a photo …'

'What photo?'

'The one at your house … I never told you about it at the time, but I was very much intent on looking at your family pictures. You had a childhood dog.'

'Yes … I didn't think you – God, you're a big softie after all!'

'I am no such thing,' Sherlock says, looking offended.

''Course not,' John says, kissing him on the cheek.

Mrs Hudson busies herself in the background, winking at John and quickly clearing off, and even after all these months of being with such an impossible man, he still blushes.

* * *

><p>John strolls through the park, a scalding polystyrene cup of coffee in his hand. It's been a while since he's last walked this way, but he's managed, under a lot of persuasion, to let a reluctant and concerned Sherlock to let him out of the flat.<p>

He sees a familiar figure in the distance, the chatter between a couple of elderly ladies on the bench, and the laughter of schoolchildren in the background, fading.

'Mike?' he calls towards the figure. 'Mike Stamford?'

'John Watson!' Mike says, hugging him. 'It's been too long… I confess I was meant to give you a ring sooner. I heard what happened.'

'Heard? You don't have to lie to me, Mike.'

'Alright, then. _Saw_ – I saw it - it was all over the newspapers, as well as confirmation that Sherlock Holmes faked his death.'

There's a short pause, until John speaks, amused. 'You don't sound surprised.'

'Sherlock is not an ordinary man, and neither are his circumstances. You're very close to him. You know how it is… How are you?'

'Better. Much better – Sherlock's seen better days, though. He's been paranoid about my health – thinks that my getting shot was his fault.'

Mike raises an eyebrow.

'What?' John asks.

'Nothing,' Mike says, walking along with John. 'Just unusual. Never heard of Sherlock expressing concern for anyone. You must be an influence on him.'

'Well, I guess … perhaps.'

'People will start to talk. I think I should have known that the moment I introduced you guys,' he laughed, but it's a sincere laugh.

John is a little awkward, half-giggling with the irony of the whole situation. 'I suppose I should be thanking you for introducing me to this madman.'

Mike laughs. 'Oh, more like I'm forever in your debt, John.'

'It's been some time, and we haven't really told anyone outside of 221b – with the exception of a few people – that my relationship with Sherlock isn't strictly platonic anymore.'

'Oh.' Mike stops for a moment. '_Oh_…'

'Yes,' John says.

'I should say 'congratulations',' he smiled. 'Sherlock barely lets anyone into his life.'

'Well, he's special, I suppose.'

'Ever thought that perhaps _you're_ the one who's special?' Mike smiles at him.

John scoffs. Normality of the most absurd kind – discussing his relationship with the world's only Consulting Detective in a park – starts to sink into his mind. Only months ago he was shot at, and Sebastian was incarcerated.

'It's not going to get easier,' Mike continues. 'As your friend, I should warn you. people may have joked and made suggestions about your relationship before … but people can be narrow-minded. The press will have a field day. You know what they'll like.'

'Don't remind me. The press and I haven't exactly been the best of friends for the past three years.'

'You know, those 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' posters are coming back again. I've seen them round Bart's.'

'Yeah … I saw a couple after I thought he died. Should be interesting to see how Sherlock reacts to them.'

* * *

><p>When John reaches the flat at 221b, Sherlock is resolutely clicking away angrily at the laptop. John's laptop, of course.<p>

'You've been gone for an hour and thirty two minutes.'

'You can tell the time. Well done, Sherlock,' John says, drily, kissing him on the lips. 'I wasn't gone long. I'm fine. Still whole.'

Sherlock's previous scowl is now replaced with a dozy compliance and a quick eagerness for more kisses.

John smiles into each one, sometimes sweet, sometimes feverish, indulging in the fact that he can usually persuade Sherlock out of sulking with such methods.

They break apart gently. 'I hate it when you do that,' Sherlock says, softly.

'Oh, it's very much the opposite, I should think,' John laughs. 'Tea?'

'Are you sure you don't want me to-?'

'While I appreciate the gesture, I think it would be best if we both drank tea without vomiting.'

'That solution I put inside the tea instead of milk was an accident, and I only did it _once_. It's not hard to understand how easily one could lose concentration with such a _mundane_ task. I had other things on my mind.'

'This from the man who thinks breathing is boring.'

'Hmm… I've seen a couple of those posters around London, now that the Scotland Yard released an official statement about the Sebastian Moran incident and my reappearance.'

'Yeah, thought you might,' John says, his voice distant in the kitchen.

'I'm not sure how savoury it is to have my face plastered over lampposts for dogs to-'

'Piss on?' John finished, laughing into his freshly-made tea. He sets it aside and makes one for Sherlock.

A quick glance towards the living room, and he finds Sherlock looking up at him, his stature suddenly composed and still.

'What? Have I got something on my face again?' John asks, puzzled.

'No …' Sherlock says, and John notices a look of uncertainty and shyness, an odd assembly of child-like innocence painted on his face, those rare occasions in which this man reveals himself to another and not the mask he wears. 'I was just thinking… if some of these posters were around after you saw me - fall from Bart's… It mustn't have been easy for you.'

John brings a tray of tea over towards him, sets it beside them on a table, and sits opposite Sherlock, strangely at ease.

'Yes … I won't deny it, Sherlock. It was hard. But at the same time, oddly gratifying. No one could convince me you weren't who you said you were. And I suppose there are others who think the same.'

'Others,' Sherlock says, his brow burrowed, ruminating on the word. John finds it amusing that Sherlock finds this a little perplexing and hard to believe.

'You haven't complained for weeks, Sherlock.'

'About what?' Sherlock says, astounded.

'A case, silly. Any new ones?'

Sherlock studies John's face for a moment, smiling. 'No.'

'Liar.'

'I am most certainly not.'

'I saw Mike Stamford today… and of course, you already knew that.'

'I won't bore by explaining how I know. I'm under the assumption that he now knows about us.'

'And you're OK with this?'

'Yes,' he says, as if it is the most obvious answer in the world. 'What society labels us is little interest to me. If they don't understand it, and I don't expect them to, then it isn't a problem. My main interest is you.' He looks at John, intently. 'You see, something quite ordinary and preposterous has happened.'

'Oh, really?' John muses, moving closer towards him. Their hands touch slightly. 'What's that?'

'The most mundane experience of all human existence, the motives that underpin the criminals we hunt everyday, the fundamental rules of chemistry and biology, the very thing I care little for – must I say it? – _love_ – I don't think the word is great enough to explain what I mean, but … I have been and will continue to be completely in love with you.'

And John is kissing him before Sherlock can even so much as exhale.

'My goodness, John,' Sherlock mutters, in between kisses, 'I think you've forgotten I need to breathe.'

'Hmm. Breathing's boring, remember?'

Sherlock finds himself under John on the couch, his pale skin flushed and bruised with kisses.

'Yes, quite.'

There's a knocking at the door. 'Lestrade,' Sherlock breathes.

'A new case after all.'

'Interested?'

'Oh God, yes.'

They share one more kiss, a swift movement between two lungs, a giving of life to one another, each of them indulged in the feeling of completeness in embracing each other, in loving nobly. And both could allow themselves to let the years stretch out before them, no longer alone, but together.


End file.
